Have Yourself a Hero's Little Christmas
by Random Equinox
Summary: Shepard wasn't asking for much. Just some time off during the Christmas holidays to relax and catch up with friends and family. Naturally, the universe wasn't so accomodating.
1. Stuck on the Naughty List

_Author's Note: Yes, readers and reviewers, your eyes do not deceive you. This is, in fact, another fanfic. Before you get too alarmed, take a deep breath and don't freak out. I am still on track in terms of writing and finishing The Hero We Deserve and The Hero Who Loved Me. _

_So why start another fanfic now when I'm so close to finishing my other fanfics? Simple: I had an idea for a Christmas fanfic, or at least one set around Christmas, and I just had to run with it. *shrugs* What can you do?_

_The following tale takes place after the Battle of Elysium and before the events of Accidental Hero of the Galaxy. Certain parties may want to check out the Timeline entry on the invaluable Mass Effect wiki—specifically, the year 2178. _

_Certain parties may also note that there are several references to a certain TV show. What can I say: when it was great, it was _great.

_Viva Buymoria!_

* * *

**Chapter One: Stuck on the Naughty List**

It had been a while since I last saw Ellie. Oh, we'd kept in touch through e-mails and the occasional real-time vid-call. It's probably an abuse of authority to use military communication bandwidths—and spec ops bandwidth at that—to talk to your sister. Especially when that 'sister' has no biological relation to you and those conversations have absolutely nothing to do with work. Thankfully, the program McGee had whipped up did a good job of keeping Cyber-Security off my back.

Still, all the e-mails and real-time vid-calls in the galaxy aren't the same as an actual face-to-face get-together. Which I don't get often enough. Time to fix that, I decided. One of the advantages of being a supposed hero and savior: no one questions you when you ask for leave. Especially when you've been too busy getting out of jams and messes and missions that went horribly sideways to actually _use _any of that accrued leave time.

Case in point: my mom. She was all set to kick back and relax on Eden Prime or some other boring planet. Then she got recalled for a mission. A very important mission: to deliver supplies to outlying Alliance colonies. That's right: Alliance brass was too cheap to actually hire one of the hundreds of private civilian companies to ship Christmas turkeys and all the fixings out to the middle of nowhere. Instead, the bean-counters decided to cancel leave for the men and women of the SSV Kiliminjaro, sending out some big official statement that basically moved up the scheduled shakedown cruise. Never mind that it was the prototype of the Alliance Navy's newest class of dreadnought and deserved a little more attention and fanfare. The crew complied, but not before pooling their funds to buy lumps of coal for the skinflints. Mom organized the fundraising, of course.

I told myself that I wouldn't get stuck like that. If I had leave coming, I was damn well gonna use it! I was gonna have _fun_. And being a glorified cargo boy is _not _my idea of fun—Mom would back me up on that. So I put in my request for leave. I wasn't surprised when I got it. To be honest, I was surprised to get it without any personal digits from the admin lady who processed my application—I may have put on a little too much Shepard charm. If an innocent smile can be counted as charm, that is.

Ellie was surprised, though—about the fact that I was visiting her for leave, that is. Never told her about the creepy admin lady—and thrilled. The beaming smile made all the hours spent slogging through administrative crap worth it. Though I could do without the squealing—I swear it took a couple days for my ears to stop ringing.

But I digress.

After several long, long flights, I finally arrived at Arcturus Station. Ellie and Captain Awesome were waiting for me at the airlock. They greeted me the same way as they always did: Ellie yelled out "CHUCK!", ran over and gave me a bone-jarring hug, squealing in my ear the entire time. Awesome said "Dude! It is _awesome _to see you, man!" and gave me a bone-jarring pat on the back. My mind knew they meant well. My bones were a little less generous. My heart didn't give a damn about my whiny, creaky bones.

Ellie had whipped up a 'Welcome Back Dinner'. Nothing fancy, you understand, just a feast that could feed a whole platoon. SOP for Dr. Ellie Bartowski. We spent the rest of the evening talking, catching up on gossip, laughing and stuffing ourselves silly. The latter was responsible for the very, very, very deep sleep I fell into. The soft, decidedly civvie bed might have helped.

I must've slept right through the beeping associated with the standard alarm clock on my omni-tool. Thankfully, my omni-tool had a snooze function, one that randomly pulled songs from my song list to woke me up. Based on the fact that 'Jingle Bell Rock' came belting out, today's selection had a Christmas flair.

Humming along to Bobby Helms, I dance-shuffled my way out of the guest bedroom and into the bathroom. The first thing I noted was that it was awfully warm. Like steaming: the mirror was all fogged up. I wiped the condensation off just in time to see someone else doing the same thing with the shower windows.

"Ah!" I jumped and whirled around.

"Morning, Chuck!" Devon greeted me. He didn't make the slightest effort to hide himself or cover up.

"Devon?" I sputtered.

"Chuck?"

It was only then that I saw he wasn't alone. His companion, unlike him, was doing her very, very best to hide behind Devon.

"Ellie?"

...

...

...

There was really only one response to this predicament:

"My eyes!" I howled, slapping my hands over my face and bolting from the bathroom. "My eyes! Oh, I'm blind! I'm BLIND!"

* * *

There are certain images that tend to stick with you. Batarians torturing and breaking down civilians before selling them on the slave market. The first time you see a target's head disintegrate into a mist of blood and bone. The thought of your spiritual sister and her boyfriend going at it in the shower.

That last part, by the way, was _not _awesome. Thankfully I only saw Awesome in the buff. Because seeing Ellie nak—eww! Oh God! I had to stop myself before I went blind again. This kinda stuff _never _came up in Basic! Why didn't it come up in Basic? I thought the whole idea was to prepare you for anything! Gah!

We probably made a very interesting trio at the table. I was mechanically eating breakfast, with what must've been a numb look of stunned horror stamped over my face. Ellie was so embarrassed and mortified that she couldn't even drink her morning coffee—which is saying something considering how badly she _needs _her morning coffee. And her other morning coffee. And her lunch coffee. And her… well, let's just say that being a doctor carries certain professional hazards.

Awesome, of course, was nonchalantly eating his breakfast granola as if there was nothing wrong with being caught in the act. He'd clearly gotten over the little lecture we'd had back in OCS. The lecture where I'd ambushed him, tied him up, dangled him from the branches of an apple tree and turned several overripe apples into applesauce until he promised to forsake his one-night stands and stay faithful and monogamous to Ellie and Ellie alone. Maybe it was time for a reenactment. Now all I needed was to find another tree and figure out how to disable any nearby vid-cams. And figure out how to bring up the fact that Awesome was being a little too blasé about boink—gah!

I jumped. So did Ellie. Awesome looked at me innocently.

…

…

…

This was probably the point where I should say something.

"Um... well... uh..."

Boy, this was going well.

"...okay, um, first of all… uh, congratulations, Devon, for, you know, whatever God and your parents gave you down there—"

"Thanks, Chuck!" Devon beamed.

I had to pause and suppress a shudder. Ellie just shook her head and finally took her first sip of coffee. "Second: the door was not locked," I continued, "so I'm not a complete pervert."

Just a poor sap with the worst luck in the universe. I must've _really _pissed someone off in a past life or something.

"Third, and most importantly, maybe you should hang a sock or something so we don't have a repeat performance."

"Sorry, Chuck," Ellie apologized, her face turning beet-red. It would've been funnier had my own face not warmed up at the same time. "Devon and I—"

"Oh God!" I closed my eyes and clapped my hands over my ears. "Ellie, I _really _don't want to know. Just... just… give me a warning or something, okay? Some kind of heads-up so this doesn't happen again!"

"Sorry, Chuck."

"Ever!"

"I'm really sorry, Chuck."

I opened my eyes and glared at Devon. He looked at me blankly before flinching. Ellie must've kicked him. "Sure thing, Chuck. Sorry 'bout the… you know."

"Okay," I said. "That happened. Moving on. Ellie, you were—"

The doorbell rang at that moment. And by 'rang', I meant it played the chorus of "I Wish You A Merry Christmas." I looked at Ellie. "Change the ring tone?"

"'Tis the season."

I gave her a grin and nod of approval, traumatizing mental images forgotten. "I'm so proud."

"I know," Ellie grinned back, embarrassment and mortification also forgotten.

The doorbell rang again. Awesome shoveled another spoonful of granola into his mouth before getting up and walking to the door. He glanced at the monitor feeds from the vid-cam stationed outside before opening the door.

"Lieutenant Shepard?"

Aw, crap.

Awesome turned around and motioned for me. I slowly put down my spoon and plodded my way over, as if I could delay the inevitable by going as slowly as humanly possible. That little stall tactic bought me an extra ten seconds before meeting two men in Alliance uniforms. "Yeah?" I asked.

"Lieutenant Shepard?" the guy on the left said.

"Yeah," I said slowly. "That's me. Can I help you?"

"We need you to come with us," the guy on the right said.

I knew it. That's the last time I lay on the ol' Shepard charm. Damn admin lady had serious connections!

"Why?" That was Ellie, coming to the door with coffee cup in hand.

"Classified, ma'am," the guy on the right replied.

_"Doctor," _Ellie corrected.

"Sorry. Classified, doctor," the guy on the right tried again.

"Is he in trouble?" Ellie wanted to know.

"No, ma'am—doctor. Doctor. He—"

"Because whatever it is, he didn't do it. Do you know who this is? This is Lieutenant Shepard."

I think they knew that. They did ask for me by rank and name. I decided to keep my mouth shut, though.

The guy on the left wasn't quite as wise. "Doctor, we—"

"Maybe you've heard of him. Always listening to others, no matter the time of day. Always helping others, on his own time and expense. Like on Elysium. You've heard of Elysium, right? Batarians tried to attack it? Little thing called the Skyllian Blitz? Happened about four years ago? Chuck here stopped them. That's right: Chuck. Your 'Lieutenant Shepard.' And he's done a lot more since then. So whatever you think he's done, I'm sure it can wait a few more weeks. Because he's earned a break. And it's Christmas, after all. _Christmas_."

"You're being recalled," the guy on the right said, finally getting a word in. Which was quite impressive, really. Once Ellie got wound up, there was no stopping her. I would've admired his mad skills. Really, I would've. But those three words kinda ruined it for me.

"It's Christmas," Ellie pointed out again.

"I know," the guy on the left acknowledged. "He's still being recalled."

"Why?" Ellie asked again.

"Classified," the guy on the right said again.

"It's. Christmas."

"Tidings of comfort and joy," the guy on the left said. "Please come with us."

I automatically clamped a hand on Ellie's shoulder before she forgot the Hippocratic Oath and her need for caffeine. As I gently eased her cup out of her hand, a couple questions popped up in my noggin:

Where did Mom get that coal, anyway?

And, more importantly, did she have any left over?

* * *

"Lieutenant Shepard? I'm General Beckman and this is my associate, Admiral Graham. Thank you for agreeing to meet us on such short notice."

I hate it when REMFs say that. As if I had a choice. Because I didn't, thanks to the twin demons known as bureaucratic fine print and military chain of command. Of course, I couldn't say that either. Not to my superiors.

After saying hurried goodbyes to Ellie and Awesome, I had left my half-finished breakfast and followed my new pals through various corridors, up a flight of stairs, around a courtyard, through more corridors, down an elevator, through yet more corridors, up an elevator and—surprise, surprise—down another corridor.

We finally stopped at an office. My bestest buddies stationed themselves at the door as I walked through. Now that they were done being bearers of bad news and cruel escorts, their new task was evidently to ensure the privacy of this meeting with social grace and bedside manner.

The office sported bland walls with a really cheap attempt at artwork, a wilted plant, a faded carpet, one desk, one computer, a handful of chairs and two sour-faced officers. Alliance-standard, in other words.

"Please sit down," General Beckman, the first REMF to greet me, said.

"Yes, let's get this over with," Admiral Graham nodded.

Oh, the things I could say to that. Not that I was stupid enough to indulge that impulse, of course. After the debacle of Elysium, I'd learned that people are always watching. And listening. And judging. Especially the ones who have more stars or stripes than you. So I kept things to a simple "Ma'am. Sir." and planted my ass on the closest chair. Which was rock-hard, by the way.

Beckman and Graham quickly sat down as well—I figured we were sitting to hide the fact that Beckman was as short as a volus and Graham's looming height gave elcor a run for their money—and we got down to business. "You are aware, of course, of the events that occurred on Elysium two years ago," Beckman began.

No, I wasn't. Where was this 'Elysium'? Did it have anything to do with this 'Skyllian Blitz' that everybody kept talking about? "Yes, ma'am."

"Since then, we've been taking steps to address the clear and present danger posed by such criminals and their batarian funders to our colonies in the Skyllian Verge. That includes the recent raid on Torfan."

Ah yes. Torfan. So many interpretations on what happened there. A horrific slaughter of innocent, hard-working folks who were just minding their own business, according to the Batarian Department of Information Control. A justified retaliation for the Skyllian Blitz by clearing out underground pirate bases who'd been plaguing local colonies, according to Alliance officials. A poorly planned mission that led to countless casualties and the resignation of many fine men and women, according to Westerlund News and other tabloid rags.

I decided not to voice any of those opinions. Well above my pay grade, you see. Instead, I played the good, obedient grunt and simply repeated myself: "Yes, ma'am."

Graham took over. "We also intercepted comm traffic suggesting that there was more pirate activity in the Hong system, centred on the planet of Theshaca. To track their movements, we covertly placed surveillance devices on Theshaca's moons to track incoming and outgoing FTL vectors. After six months of data collection and analysis, we've identified no less than eight strongholds."

"I see," I said, deviating from the broken record shtick, but still staying within the realm of short-and-simple.

"The pirates don't know that we know where they are. Even if they did, they wouldn't expect us to attack them now. Not when Christmas is right around the corner."

"Of course not," I said, feeling a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach.

Beckman confirmed it: "We're going to stage simultaneous strikes against all eight strongholds."

"Where are these strongholds, exactly?" I asked, seeing where this was going. The REMFs in front of me were clearly hell-bent on shipping me off to some godforsaken rock to get shot at. Again. The sooner I spoke up, the sooner I could finagle a way to minimize the number of guns pointed in my general direction.

Graham pulled up a map of the Hong system. Sure enough, there were eight strongholds highlighted. Three were on Theshaca itself and another was planted squarely on Theshaca's largest moon. I eliminated those options immediately. Way too close to each other, which meant that they could easily ferry reinforcements back and forth if needed. And if that was where Alliance Intelligence planted their spy-bugs, then they were probably the main bases. Which meant heavily fortified and well-equipped. No thank you.

The remaining four were on Matar, Casbin, Pomal and Treagir. From the looks of things, Treagir was the farthest planet. Not to mention the smallest. Most importantly, it was the most isolated. "What can you tell me about Treagir in general and the stronghold specifically?"

"It's a small ice dwarf," Beckman told me. "Trace atmosphere of xenon and krypton. Surface composed primarily of frozen water and ammonia."

Great. It had been ages since I had a snowball fight.

"Calling the Treagir base a 'stronghold' may be something of an overstatement," Graham shrugged. "To be honest, it's just a small compound. Maybe even an outpost. Relatively exposed and lightly manned—we estimate a complement of ten to twenty pirates."

Perfect.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I'd like to volunteer for Treagir, sir. Ma'am." In for a penny... "A small squad under my command could easily storm the outpost, freeing larger units and much-needed resources to hit other targets that are, no doubt, much more fortified."

"We appreciate your enthusiasm and initiative," Graham approved.

I slowly felt my stomach stop sinking.

"And we agree with your proposal," Beckman added.

My stomach settled to a comfortable halt.

"With one modification."

My stomach started plummeting again.

"Which is?"

"As you pointed out, our available resources are limited and there are several other targets that present a far greater challenge. That is why the Treagir assignment will be a solo operation."

Solo.

Aw, crap.

"With all due respect," I protested, trying not to grind my teeth or clench my fists in frustration, "the likelihood of success would be significantly increased if this was a group operation. Even an extra soldier or two could—"

"Overruled," Graham said curtly.

I'd like to think that my eye didn't twitch.

Beckman intervened before I got myself court-martialed for assaulting a superior officer or running from the office screaming at the top of my lungs. "Lieutenant, rest assured that we do not make this decision lightly. We are aware of the risks associated with a solo operation."

Oh good. Here I was thinking that I was the only one.

"However—"

Right. There's always a 'however.'

"—there is a reason why you are a N7 operative. You have demonstrated time and time again your resourcefulness and tactical prowess on countless missions. Your accomplishments on Elysium are nothing short of exemplary."

I know. Believe me, I know. That's why I _hate _being allowed—and expected—to sport that damn N7 logo on my hardsuit like a walking advertisement. Believe it or not, it's not a chick magnet—unless you count the bimbos who've memorized the latest celebrity gossip but don't know the Alliance classification system. It's more like a "stay away 'cuz I'm not worthy to talk to the hero" sign… or a giant freaking bulls-eye planted firmly on my back.

"That is why we want you to hit the Treagir compound."

Now it was a 'compound' again. Yippee.

"No one but a N7 operative with your skill set and service record could pull it off."

Because no good deed goes unpunished, I guess. "What's the plan for insertion?" I asked, giving in to the inevitable.

Graham leaned forward. "Tracing the pirates' movements has revealed one other detail: regular monthly traffic between Bekenstein and the Hong system."

That raised an eyebrow. "That's an awfully long journey to make. Not to mention an expensive one. The fuel costs alone would be enormous."

"Agreed. We believe that the pirates move their illicit proceeds to Bekenstein to sell on the grey market, then pick up supplies on the return trip. And the first stop the cargo ship makes upon entering the Hong system is Treagir."

"So if I can go to Bekenstein and slip aboard the cargo ship, I get a free ride to my target," I concluded.

"Exactly," Beckman nodded. "To be frank, it's safer and more efficient than dropping you off in a Mako and having you drive to the base. Not to mention the maintenance costs will be considerably lower."

Sheesh. Flip one Mako over and get it jammed upside down in a crevasse, and they _never _let you forget it.

"There is, however, a catch."

Like the whole 'you can do it solo' bit. Great. As if this assignment wasn't FUBAR enough already.

"The pirates randomize the cargo ship used each month. Once you arrive at Bekenstein, you'll have to identify the ship yourself."

In other words, I get to play 'Pin the Needle on the Donkey' before playing 'Tag' with a bunch of armed goons. Wonderful. Someone out there must really, _really _love me. "I assume I'll have time to say goodbye?"

"You leave in one hour."

An hour. Wow. I remember the days when I'd go straight from the briefing room to the shuttle, with nothing but a five minute vid-call on the way to say "See ya later." My, how things have changed.

"Understood," I nodded, fixing Hero Smile #1 (Humanity's Best, Bravest and Brightest) firmly in place.

What else could I say?

* * *

Okay. I had two stops to make before getting on the shuttle and only one hour. Packing would eat up quite a bit of time unless… tapping on my omni-tool, I pulled up a number and opened the comm channel. "Come on," I urged as I got out of the elevator and started speed-walking down the corridor. "Pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up—"

"_Hello? Chuck?"_

"Ellie, I'm sorry but…"

"_I finished packing some clothes and essentials for you and Devon's grabbing leftovers for you to eat on the shuttle. We'll meet you at Echo Park."_

"How…"

"_How did I know you'd be going away on some top-secret mission on short notice and could use some help in grabbing your gear? Please." _

Once again, Ellie went above and beyond. Now I could concentrate on making just one stop. Now where was it again... "No, silly," I laughed, doubling back to the last intersection and taking a left. "I was going to say 'how did you pack so fast?'"

"_Let's just say all those times we spent playing camp as kids paid off."_

"And yet you take days to pack for a weekend trip," I teased, taking a hard right. If memory served...

"_No making fun of your sis or I'm taking out the cheesecake." _

Not the cheesecake. Anything but Ellie's Famous Cheesecake. "Shutting up now. You're the best, Ellie."

"_And you're the…"_ Ellie broke off as a muffled voice said something in the background. _"Okay, honey! Chuck: Devon says he's done. We're—oof, that's heavy—we're heading out now. Honey, can you give me a hand here?"_

"Okay," I responded. "See you later." Turning off the comm, I rounded the corner and—there it was. The spec-ops armoury. Just where I remembered it. Heck, it looked exactly the same—right down to the dent caused by the skycar that I was absolutely _not _driving. Honest.

"Chuck?"

Aside from Ellie—and Devon—there was only one other guy who called me 'Chuck' instead of 'Lieutenant' or 'Shepard.' "Morgan?"

Sure enough, it was Morgan Grimes. The shortest guy to ever make it through Basic. Still toting the beard. And the infectious grin. "How's it going, man? What's it been—five years? Six?"

"At least," I grinned, taking the hand he extended towards me and pulling him into a hug.

Morgan broke off the hug first to slap me on the shoulder. "Hey, Ellie told me the good news: you finally finished N-School! How's it feel to be a certified N7?"

The Interplanetary Combat Academy, colloquially known as 'N-School' or 'the villa' offered courses in special operations, combat expertise and leadership. Very, very, _very _tough courses. Just qualifying for an N1 course gave an officer a great deal of respect. Surviving the N1 course—by leading hungry, sleep-deprived squads through 20-hour training 'sessions' in Rio de Janiero—was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But I did learn a lot. And I learned even more stuff—from advanced zero-G combat to combat instruction to frontline trauma for humans and aliens—during

the N2 through N6 courses. Shame I never learned anything about removing the suicide mission magnet that got jammed up my ass. When I think of the times it screwed me over... "You know the rule about N-School," I said quickly, before I got bogged down in Memory Lane.

"Yeah, yeah: 'You don't talk about N-School.'"

"Exactly." I put a stern look on my face. That little act only lasted a couple seconds. "You're looking good," I complimented Morgan, patting him on the back.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Can't complain. It's hard work perfecting the fine art of slacking off. Gotta keep the razor's edge nice and sharp."

"So you still haven't applied for OCS yet?" I guessed.

Morgan shuddered. "Uh, no. Being an officer means less time for video games. Can't have that. Besides, I kinda like it where I am. Got a good thing going here."

That was true. When he wasn't playing extranet video games or talking about playing extranet video games, he was exercising 'mad skills' in procurement. The guy had a knack for finding everything from basic essentials to exotic foods to top-of-the-line weapons. He knew his levo-foods from his dextro and his shotguns from his pistols. At least, he did back in the day. I hoped he hadn't gotten rusty: thanks to OCS and N-School, I'd kinda lost touch with the little bearded man. "Speaking of which, you still on duty?"

"Actually… my shift just ended," Morgan winced. "Sorry, man. Got a couple N7 Code of Honour games lined up and—"

"I'm going on a mission," I interrupted.

"Top secret?"

"Beyond."

"Leading a platoon into combat, right?"

"I wish."

"At least tell me you've got a squad on your six."

"I'm going solo, Morgan."

"You're going so—games can wait," Morgan said, doing an about-face. "Come on."

I followed him, grateful at first. That gratitude quickly turned to confusion. And not just because he'd volunteered to put off gaming. "Morgan?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are we going through the side door?"

"If my boss finds out I'm still working, he'll make me put in for overtime. Which means sitting down and filling out tons of forms in triplicate. While he stands over me and complains about it between bites of donuts. It's like getting drenched in dandruff."

"Ah. And ick."

"Besides, I assume you want something other than the stock crap from Hahne-Kedar?"

"Oh _God_, yes," I said fervently. "_Anything's _better than Hahne-Kedar. Still can't believe we're stuck going into combat with their gear."

"That's what happens when the Systems Alliance gets locked into a twenty-year supply contract," Morgan shrugged, entering his security code. "Great for discounts, lousy for actually hurting or killing your targets. Anyway, if the boss sees me working, he'll make me foist Hahne-Kedar weapons on you. Even if you tell him you're going on a one-way trip to the Terminus Systems."

"Even if I break the first rule of N-School and pull out the N7 card?"

"That gets you the Mark V goods from Hahne-Kedar," Morgan laughed. "Very shiny, very expensive, but still a load of crap. Trust me: you're better off sneaking in with me."

Running into Morgan was paying off already. We went down yet another corridor and into a dimly lit room. Must've been the storage facility, judging by all the shelves and crates.

"Okay, let's see," Morgan said, more to himself than me. I sat down on a chair, after wiping off the dust, and watched the master work his magic. "We'll begin with a Mark IV Raikou pistol from Ariake Technologies—pretty damn good from a company that started off dealing in omni-tools. Moving on to… now where did I put the Haliat stuff?"

"Haliat?" I asked. "As in Haliat Armoury? The turian weapons manufacturers?"

"Yep," he confirmed, getting on his knees and rifling through crates.

"Since when did you get access to _turian _weapons?"

"Since Haliat made too many weapons and the Hierarchy gave them the okay to sell the surplus on the galactic market."

"'Surplus?' You mean the turians actually made too many weapons?"

"I know. Weird, right? Anyway, I managed to get a couple shipments of—ah! Here we go!" He stood up and turned around. "Voila: Mark III Thunder assault rifle," he said, lifting up his left hand. "And a Mark III Tornado shotgun."

"Great," I approved. "Now what do you have in the way of—"

"Sniper rifles?" Morgan finished. "Right over here." He led me to a crate that was covered in dust and an active datapad showing… "Morgan? What's this?"

"Blueprints of the Supermax compound level for N7 Code of Honour. My squad—"

"Your 'squad'?" I interrupted.

"Yes, 'my squad.' Anyway, we kinda got trashed in our last match with a bunch of total douches, so I got to thinking on how we could take them all out. Wanna take a look?"

"I really shouldn't—"

"Great." Morgan tapped a command into the datapad. "Here are the specs—are you ready? Twenty-three Vanguards, sixteen Infiltrators, seven Soldiers, four Adepts and enough ammunition to send a clan of krogan into orbit."

Wow.

"Fifty gamers, one call, all ready for battle. With this squad assembled, and my plan, victory is ours."

"Morgan, you're my new hero," I said sincerely.

"Thanks, man. Now for the good stuff." He tossed the datapad aside—I winced as it clattered on the floor—opened up the crate and pulled out the weirdest sniper rifle I'd ever seen. I mean, the thing had _curves _where it should have had straight lines. "What is this?"

"Mark III Pulse rifle, courtesy of the geth."

"The geth?"

"The geth."

"Synthetics, flashlight heads—those geth?"

"Yep."

"Where… how…"

"No idea. I mean, no one's seen the geth in almost two hundred years. But they're out there, somewhere in the Perseus Veil, doing who knows what."

I picked up the rifle and peering through the scope. "Apparently one of those things involves making weapons."

"Not just weapons," Morgan corrected me. _"Good _weapons. This Mark III will put most Mark _IV_'s to shame. I was saving it for a rainy day when I got in hot water with the boss. You know: 'Sorry, boss! I know I shouldn't have been playing Galaxy of Fantasy during my shift, but look what I got! A hot, sexy geth weapon! Can you believe I scored this baby off of some schmuck for a song?'"

"Did you really score it for a song?" I wanted to know.

"Hell yeah," Morgan laughed. "It's a long story, though. No time for the usual after-action report."

"Skip the full AAR and give me the gist, then," I urged. My curiosity was getting the better of me. Again.

"Okay, so some efficiency expert douchebag came in last month and went on a rampage. Totally made a mess of things. No overlapping shifts. No scheduled replacements when someone called in sick—even the legit cases. That sort of thing. So, you know, we might've been a little pissed."

"Okay," I nodded. "With you so far."

"Might've gotten ugly if he hadn't offered to host a poker game. You know, to make up for all our 'hard work and cooperation during this transition period.'"

"And that was how you got the sniper rifle?" I guessed.

"Yep. Mr. Efficiency lost all his chips and put it up as collateral."

"Nice."

Morgan held up his hands to slow me down. "Hold on, buddy. That's not all."

"There's _more_? Don't tell me you guys played strip poker."

"With the sausage fest around the poker table? Hell, no!"

"Then what?"

"Mr. Efficiency got drunk. Totally wasted. On—get this—a couple of _wine coolers_!"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Lightweight," I snorted.

"I know," Morgan howled. "And the best part is that we _recorded _it all!"

I gave him a high-five. "Well done, soldier. I assume that helped accomplish the mission objective."

"Yes, sir. In exchange for our silence, Mr. Efficiency took back every idiotic change he made and peace returned to the Arcturus Station Armoury."

"Very poetic."

"I thought so."

"And after all your hard work, you're handing this over."

"Well, yeah," Morgan shrugged. "I have my unofficial break times and my unofficial gaming hour back. Even if I didn't, you need this more than I do."

"You're a lifesaver, Morgan," I said sincerely, packing up my newfound goodies.

"No problem, Chuck."

"Thanks again. Catch you later."

"Yeah, man. Later."

* * *

I met Ellie and Awesome in Echo Park as we'd arranged. Place still looked exactly the same, right down to the dinky little fountain. Naturally, Awesome was holding the hardsuit case, the duffle bag full of fatigues and undies and other essentials, and the microwavable lunch container—all without breaking a sweat. That left Ellie to give me another Bartowski hug.

"This sucks," she said at last, her voice muffled by the fact that her head was buried in my shoulder.

"I know," I managed, my voice slightly higher in pitch than normal thanks to the krogan vice Ellie had me wrapped in.

"We haven't seen each other in ages."

"I know."

"You could get shot."

"I _know_. Don't ask me how, but I must've gotten myself stuck on Santa's naughty list."

Ellie laughed ruefully. "I doubt that."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Listen, sis: there's a good chance that I won't be back—"

"Don't say that!" Ellie said frantically.

"—in time for Christmas," I finished.

"Oh. That's better. Still, I don't care," Ellie said firmly. "Just promise me something."

"Fine: I won't threaten Awesome at gunpoint for this morning's debacle."

"Okay, promise me something else."

"Shoot."

"Chuck."

"Sorry, poor choice of words. What is it?"

Ellie reached up and cupped my face in her hands. "Promise me that you'll be careful and that you'll come home. Alive. I don't care if you're late for Christmas. Just promise me that."

"I can't," I groaned. "It doesn't work that way. You know that. But I'll do my best."

"Fine," Ellie huffed. "I guess that'll have to do."

"Okay."

"Okay."

A beep broke the silence. _**Lieutenant Shepard? We leave in ten minutes.**_

"Copy that," I replied. "Gotta go, sis. Devon?"

"Right." Devon walked over and handed me my gear. And, more importantly, my food. Carefully balancing everything—it would really suck if I started this solo suicide mission off with a twisted ankle—I slowly headed out of Echo Park and towards the designated docking bay.

"Chuck?"

I turned around. "Yeah?"

Ellie gave me a thumbs up. "Aces, Charles. You're aces."

It took everything I had not to tear up. "A Dad quote. I'm impressed."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

"Be safe."

"I'll try."

"Do or do not."

"Roger that."


	2. Santa Claus is Coming to Treagir

**Chapter Two: Santa Claus is Coming to Treagir **

Morgan called me just as I entered the docking bay. _"Chuck?"_

"Yeah, Morgan?" I replied. "I'm just about to leave. What's up?"

"_Forgot to give you something. I sent a courier over to the docking bay to catch you."_

I looked around. Sure enough, there was a courier waiting for me near the shuttle, briefcase in hand. How could I have missed him? So much for situational awareness. If he was a hitman, I could've gotten whacked. "Thanks," I said.

"_No problem. Good luck!"_

I detoured to intercept the courier. "Lieutenant Shepard?" he asked as I approached.

"Yep," I nodded.

"According to my instructions, I am to hand this over if you can answer the following question."

Of course. Even Morgan couldn't keep it simple. "All right," I sighed. "Lay it on me."

"What is the coolest Halloween costume ever?"

It was scary how well Morgan knew me, even after all these years. "Sandworm."

The courier nodded and handed over the briefcase. "Here you go, sir."

I popped it open. It was full of weapon mods. Heat sinks and high-caliber barrels, to be exact. Just what I needed to give my guns that extra oomph. I closed the briefcase and hauled onboard the shuttle along with the rest of my gear.

As the shuttle doors closed and the cabin pressurized, I began plotting my next move. First thing I had to do once we touched down on Bekenstein was to figure out which one of the turkeys was…

…ships. Ships. I had to figure out which one of the ships was making a long, long trip to the Hong system. Good bet was to check out the bars and check out the local gossip. Because that's what people do in bars. They yap their mouth off. When they're not stuffing their faces full of potatoes, all nice and crispy on the outside and warm and chewy on the inside…

…okay. I had to stop this. I had to buckle down and get my bib on—game. Get my game on. Had to focus on my next move. I had to be serious and strong. Ignore the tantalizing smell wafting out from Ellis's lunch container and the growling in my stomach and focus on… on… vegetables. Everyone hates vegetables. Yes, focus on the mission because the alternative was the nice, steamed vegetables bursting with…

…

…oh screw it.

I opened the lunch container. Slices of turkey, nice and moist. With gravy and cranberry sauce and all the fixings. Right next to the lamb, still succulent and tender after being slow-cooked for several hours. There were the roast potatoes, as nice and golden and crisp as I'd imagined. And the steamed veggies, a medley of carrots to cauliflower to broccoli.

Of course, there was also a slice of Ellie's Famous Cheesecake. With a last-minute addition. Ellie had found some leftover icing and scribbled a message for me: _"Now you eat this LAST, you greedy pig!"_

Yes, Ellie. Whatever you said.

"Lieutenant?" a voice called out from the cockpit.

"Yeah?"

"We're about to take off now."

"I'm buckled in and ready to go." Which I was. Managed to do _that _at least before getting distracted by my stomach and Ellie's amazing, legendary cooking.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yeah?"

"That… is that… did you bring some food with you? 'Cuz that doesn't smell like military rations."

"Yes I did and no it isn't," I responded.

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"You got any extras to share?"

…

"No?"

* * *

I wound up sharing in the end. Ellie would scold me if I didn't. You'd think we were actually related, the way she bossed me around all the time.

Got to sit in the cockpit and chat with Lieutenant Hoban, the pilot. Couldn't stop talking about the love of his life. Kinda laid it on a bit thick, I thought, but overall, he was a nice guy. Wouldn't let me fly the shuttle, though. Rules and protocols, he said. Personally, I think someone sent him a bootleg copy of the last time I flew a shuttle. I only overshot the landing pad by a little. And there were only a couple sparks caused by the shuttle bouncing off the pavement. Which wouldn't have amounted to anything were it not for the lazy asses who never bothered to clean up that fuel leak. In other words, the base catching on fire and eventually blowing up was totally not my fault.

Honest.

After finishing the meal, it was time for a nap. Yes, as surprising as it sounds, one can sleep on a military shuttle. It takes a lot of practise and readjusting of standards, but once you realize that there are no standards—comfort-wise, that is—when it comes to the military, you learn to sleep anywhere at any time. Especially when you never knew when you'd get another chance.

"Lieutenant?" Hoban called out.

Now what? "Yeah?"

"We've entered the Boltzmann System. ETA to Bekenstein: one hour.

Already? Geez, that was a deep sleep. I blame Ellie's turkey.

"Understood."

All right. Time to make some plans. This whole mission was going to fail if I didn't get to the Treagir compound. Which meant I had to figure out which ship was the latest to be picked for the trip. Now there were two ways I could think of to accomplish that. Plan A involved a lot of walking and talking and drinking. Plan B required a bit of hacking and waiting and twiddling fingers.

Needless to say, Plan A sounded like a lot more fun.

All I had to do was walk around. Enjoy the sights—but only until I found the closest bar or pub or whatever. I was here on business, after all, not pleasure. Even if that business involved sitting down, having a drink, and listening to the local gossip. Encourage a couple people to tell me about themselves. Specifically, people tell me about taking long, long trips to visit individuals of questionable character and repute.

I accessed the shuttle's computers and established a connection to the extranet—which didn't take as long as you'd think. Benefit of being in the military: you get first dibs on the extranet bandwidth. Not surprisingly, a map of Jacobstown—where we'd be landing—was one of the search queries that had the most hits. As one of the busiest starports on Bekenstein, it saw a lot of traffic. Especially from first-time tourists like me. It was also less than shocking to discover that search queries for the nearby drinking establishments were also very popular. I started browsing different establishments, downloading relevant information to my omni-tool. There were a lot of them. Though they all seemed to have similar menus.

"Lieutenant, we've been cleared for landing. We're beginning our descent now."

Wow. Guess you really can lose track of time when you're surfing the extranet. "Got it," I replied.

I closed all the extranet windows, checked my omni-tool to make sure that everything had downloaded properly, buckled my seatbelt and braced myself. If experience was any indication, there would be a very bumpy ride, a bit of unnecessary screaming and a tooth-jarring bump or two as we slammed onto the landing pad.

To my surprise, none of that happened. The ride was smooth. No one screamed. And I barely felt a bump as the shuttle touched down. Weird.

"Welcome to Jacobstown, Lieutenant," Hoban said. "Thanks again for sharing your meal."

"No problem," I replied, gathering my gear. The shuttle door opened and…

…

...wow.

My first impression of Jacobstown was definitely festive. Brightly coloured tinsel strewn everywhere. Santa Clauses and reindeer and snowmen—thank God none of them were anatomically correct, especially after seeing Awesome in the buff—up and down the street. Christmas trees lined up and down the street, almost in military precision. Some of them were even real, though I shuddered at the thought of how much it must have cost to ship real, live evergreen trees. The boughs of every tree—real or otherwise—was buried beneath all the baubles and ornaments and Christmas lights. Christmas lights that were also covering every available surface. And, of course, there was the obligate sprinkling of snow.

Some might say that it was blatant and commercial. And it was, I had to admit. But when I looked at it, I couldn't help but think of all the times Ellie and I spent arguing about the perfect way to set up our Christmas decorations—she always won, of course. All the hours we spent running around setting up the decorations, bowling over our patient and suffering mothers in our sugar-fuelled adrenaline rush. The plastic tree we'd assemble, having carefully shipped it from ship to starbase to ship.

The sooner I found the ship, the sooner I could go back to Ellie. Okay, okay: and Awesome too. And Morgan. Of course, that conveniently skipped over the getting to Treagir and getting shot at parts.

A man does need his delusions every now and then.

* * *

The first place I visited was The Platinum. Very upscale. Very posh. Very modern. Everything was either an aggressive and blinding white or a stark, concerted black. Everyone was dressed in clothes that screamed fashionable, trendy and most definitely expensive. They were all talking in soft voices, because it just wouldn't do something as uncouth as raising your voice. Classical music played in the background. All that was missing was...

"Can I help you, sir?"

...the doorman. Impeccably dressed in crisp, custom-tailored clothes because even the doormen had to outshine unwanted and unworthy trespassers. Nose lifted, disapproving frown firmly in place. His voice carried a slight trace of a sneer.

I already knew where this was going, but I had to at least make the effort. "Yeah," I replied. "I'd like to go in."

"This establishment is reserved for Members in Good Standing only," the doorman sneered, emphasizing the capitals. "You, sir, are not welcome here."

"And how does one become a 'Member in Good Standing'?" I asked.

"By tradition and custom, sir. Something which you would certainly not know."

"Well, I happen to know that humanity only began expanding beyond the Sol system within the last thirty years," I pointed out. "How much tradition and custom could there possibly be?"

"More than one of your kind would know, sir."

"'My kind'?" I repeated.

"Yes, sir. Riff-raff, sir. Now, off with you. Go before I summon security."

While I was curious to see what sort of security was reserved for Members in Good Standing, I had other avenues to explore and other fish to fry. "Sure thing, Jeeves."

The doorman gave me a blank look, which I thoroughly enjoyed. It's always fun when the 'riff-raff' got one up on the higher-ups.

As I casually walked away, I noticed a really bad Santa Claus at the corner of the street paying particularly close attention to me. By that I mean he was a salarian: I don't care how much padding you stuff under his clothes, you can't pass a salarian off as a convincing Santa Claus. I altered my path ever-so-slightly. After a minute, I came to a stop outside an electronic store on that corner. Leaning forward, I pretended to be enthralled by the vid-games displayed in the window. "Anything I can do for you?" I murmured out of your corner.

"I beg your pardon?" Salarian Claus asked innocently.

"You seemed very interested in me earlier," I said. "Are you always so curious about tourists?"

"I'm more interested in the comings and goings of the club you tried to get in," Salarian Claus replied.

"Just the comings and goings?" I asked. "Not what's going on inside?"

Salarian Claus looked at me suspiciously. I realized I had to talk fast before he suspected me of being another stooge for the Members in Good Standing and vamoosed. "Because I would be interested in talking to someone who had an ear inside, so to speak."

Too late, I realized that I was only digging a deeper hole. Thankfully, Salarian Claus was still intrigued. "I might know of someone who could help you," he smiled. "If you had something of equal value, of course."

"Of course," I said, mimicking his smile. "And what would this person consider to be of equal value?"

"A firomactal drive, a nadion coil and an isopalavial interface."

"Really?" I asked skeptically. "You want me to find three items to trade for the name of one person who may or may not be of any use?"

"That's right," Salarian Claus smiled, clearly under the delusion that I was going to help him. Because I wasn't going to help him. At least, I didn't think it would be worth my time to help him.

...

Aw, crap. I had a feeling that I might wind up helping him.

* * *

Before I started running around finding random items for the Galaxy's Worst Santa Claus, I might as well check out some of the other taverns and pubs. My theory was that if I did enough eavesdropping, I could figure out which people might be more likely to take a really, really long trip. Money troubles, desperation, certain undesirable habits, that kind of thing. Then I could start tracking them down and talking to them.

I decided to start with the pub across the street. Foxy's Something or Other. Dimly lit in that stumble-around-and-trip-over-something kind of lighting that seemed ever so popular, except for the strings of Christmas lights that lined the walls. Lots of people milling around. Lots of young people...

"Shut up!"

"Oh my God!"

"So, like, he was all whiny about, like, how I never listened to him and I was, like whatever."

…this might not have been the best place to begin my search. Of course, I could be mistaken…

"Hey, so I talked to my dad, and he agreed to lend us his private cruiser. Next week, we are gonna be livin' it up on the Citadel!"

"Citadel? What happened to Illium?"

"Um yeah. Mom put her foot down on that, the old hag. I mean, so I failed a couple classes. It's not like I _need_ social studies, right?"

…but the chances of that seemed very slim.

Forty or fifty minutes later, I was positive that this was not the kind of place for my needs. The only reason anyone in this place left Bekenstein was to go on vacation, and the Hong system wasn't on anyone's list of tourist destinations. I was also positive that if the future of humanity depended on our youth, we might be better off throwing in the towel and kick starting the zombie apocalypse, because we already had the mindless, vapid idiots in abundance.

Of course, it was entirely possible that I should be skipping the places frequented by rich spoiled brats and focusing on other targets.

After entering in the new search criteria, I moved to the next stop on my list. The Desert Sun—I'm not sure what the big deal was about seeing a sun in the desert. Maybe there's some big philosophical thing going on there. But I digress. It was a ramshackle old hut with a cactus and sun neon sign blazing overhead. Considering the kind of income disparity that ran rampant on Bekenstein, the façade was either a deliberate attempt to look run-down or an inevitable consequence of a bar heavily in debt.

I stepped inside and looked around. The first thing I noticed —aside from the Christmas tree with electric blue 'pine' needles—was that the entire clientele was male. Second thing was that there was an unusual homogeneity in dress. That's not uncommon: poorer circles tend to lean towards leather or faux-leather, coveralls and short-sleeved shirts. More well-to-do circles see more one-piece jumpsuits of synthetic fabrics. This circle…

…had a lot of tight leather pants and even tighter tops.

"Hey, honey!"

A growing suspicion gnawed away at my gut. Activating my omni-tool, I double-checked the Desert Sun's info feed. It was only then that I noticed the last sentence. Seemed this place catered towards men who were interested in, well, men.

"You're new in town, right? 'Cause I _know _I'd remember someone like you!"

This was an unexpected wrinkle, if only because I hadn't gathered sufficient intel, but I could work with this. It is the twenty-second century, after all. "I'm interested in anyone who might be taking a trip," I tried.

"Ooh, exotic getaway, huh? Got room in your cabin for two?"

But this might require some negotiation skills that never came up during _any _of my training.

"Yoohoo! Do you like sushi? I know this great place where you can eat sushi off of underwear models. Trust me; the sushi is as delicious as the hunks!"

Definitely uncharted territory.

Somehow, I managed to get out of there with my clothes on and my dignity only slightly spoiled. Plus I got the contact information for several dozen men—which is several dozen more than I usually get from the opposite sex. The universe really does enjoy laughing at my expense.

Almost two hours had passed since I'd begun my search and so far I'd come up empty. If I was a cop or private investigator, I'd keep making the rounds, doggedly checking out each and every bar and pub and restaurant.

Unfortunately, I wasn't a cop or a PI. I was a N7 spec-ops soldier who'd been recalled for a solo op, which was part of a larger and very intricately coordinated mission. I didn't have time to go bar hopping.

Time to give Plan B a try. With a little help from Plan A.

* * *

My third stop, fourth if you count the one with the snobby doorman, was the Triple Star. Or the Jacobstown one, anyway—it was part of a chain of restaurants/pubs that catered to Alliance military, civvie freighters and pretty much anyone who had anything to do with a starship. At least, that's what the description said—I double-checked this time.

Sure enough, there were lots of men and women in Alliance uniforms, pilot uniforms, and engineer coveralls... the kind of place that starship and freighter crews might frequent after a long haul. So I went in and started making the rounds. Walking around the inevitable Christmas tree or jolly snowman, going to a lot of random people and giving them the story I'd just made up. "Excuse me," I began.

"Yes?" the blonde with the ponytail said.

"Can you help me? I've got a problem."

"What sort of problem?" the Asian guy with the tech visor asked.

"Well, it's my nav systems. They're totally messed up."

The black guy with the bushy hair frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Damn thing won't sync with the port computers. Flight routes, docking procedures, departure times… I have to do everything manually with someone on the other end of the comm feeding me instructions."

"That sucks," the salarian winced, rubbing his omni-tool as if his baby was the one that was affected.

"Tell me about it," I groaned. "Captain's been riding my ass about it for weeks. Says if I don't get it fixed, this'll be my last port of call."

The brunette interrupted my story with a belch. "Whazyerpoint?" she slurred. I think.

"Do you know anybody who's encountered this sort of thing before? Anyone who might be able to help me fix it?"

I sang this song several times. Most of the time I got an indifferent shrug or two. Sometimes, I got a lead. Of those leads, only three or four actually panned out. I had to sit there patiently, listening to some tech guy try to figure out what the problem might be and how to fix it. It was worth it, though. Actually got something other than some vapid celebutante's social problems or some guy's digits. Specifically, I gleaned a few tips on how to crack the local port's security and access the computer systems. More importantly, my omni-tool was silently, but constantly, poking through the contents of their omni-tools for those little algorithms and protocols that help cut through annoying government encryptions. The ones that no law-abiding citizen would have, but most people have anyway, just in case they're confronted with an outrageous docking fee or a disgusting amount of red tape. Part of me almost felt guilty for doing so.

Thankfully, the rest of me managed to outvote that particular character defect.

After four or five hours—which were _far _more fruitful than the time I'd wasted earlier—I had what I was looking for. Now I needed somewhere quiet to do some work. Around here, that meant a hotel or inn. Which I couldn't afford. Not at Bekenstein rates. It was times like this that made me regret my decision to stay away from Intelligence. Spooks get access to all sorts of things like cutting-edge toys and operational slush funds. Of course, there were other aspects that weren't quite as glamorous. For example, they tend to make deals with a lot of bad people. That was my way of saying it. I couldn't begin to pronounce what Ziva called them, but I gathered it was probably some umbrella catch-all phrase for dictators, despots, terrorists, criminals and ne'er do wells. At least in spec ops, you have a chance to do something with those people at the business end of a gun.

Civvies might consider that as a bit brutish and final. Thankfully, there were no civvies in my head. Just the voices.

Anyway, given my financial situation, I had to find somewhere cheaper. Like the motel whose name I couldn't make out, since the sign had been shot down.

"Five hundred credits per night," the krogan growled.

"I only need a place to crash for a couple hours," I told him.

"One hundred credits per hour or five hundred credits per night," the krogan growled.

I started to reach for my omni-tool.

"Up front," the krogan growled. "Credit chits only. No digital transactions."

Oh this was gonna _hurt_.

* * *

One empty wallet later, I found myself in a cramped, smelly room. The walls were stained, there were insects crawling on the ceiling and—judging by the crusty layer—I'm pretty sure the last tenants had a lot of sex. Or they puked their guts out.

Either way, it was private and it had extranet access. Time to do some hacking. Which I started after washing my hands—why oh why did I think it was a good idea to _touch the bed sheets_?

The four or five hours I spent shopping for free advice paid off, because it only took four or five minutes to hack the starport computers. Okay, maybe six. Seven max. The point is, I got in and I didn't trip any security protocols. It was actually kinda fun. Bekenstein had this new encryption system. Visually, it looked like that old twentieth-century vid-game—what was it called? Toadstool? Kermit? Frogster? Whatever. Time to start.

Jacobstown saw a _lot _of incoming and outgoing traffic. Luckily, there were a few things that could narrow things down. Cruise ships, military vessels and anything with a lot of crew were out. They might have cargo bays, but they also had far too many people who might ask awkward questions. And it wouldn't be profitable to buy them all off. Shuttles and the smaller luxury yachts were out as well, as they wouldn't have the cargo capacity to store illicit proceeds.

Anything that didn't have a large enough eezo drive core for FTL travel could safely be eliminated. Those vessels would have a lower maximum speed and could only maintain those speeds for shorter periods of time. Even worse, they had a greater chance of discharging built-up static electricity—which normally built up in eezo drives during FTL—into the hull, which would fry most things and melt everything else. I suppose the crew could compensate by discharging the drive charge into the magnetospheres of random planets, but that would take too long.

I also looked for any purchases that stood out. Unusually large quantities of fuel, especially when compared to previous trends. Certain models of power converters or plasma conduits, the kind that would only be bought for a ship making a long journey. That sort of thing.

After entering all those parameters, I managed to winnow the list down to fourteen possibilities. Better than I'd expected, but still too many possibilities. The chances of getting caught while searching all fourteen ships was too high. Especially when most of them were scheduled to depart within the next six hours. Thankfully, I wasn't finished following the credits.

It was time to focus on the financial histories of the captains of those ships. I began by looking to see who had money troubles. That knocked two off the list. The next question was _how long _they were in financial difficulties. Five of them had been doing pretty well until the last few weeks, so they probably weren't desperate enough to accept shady deals from shifty-eyed characters. The big question was which captains, out of the remaining seven, had suddenly received deposits in their accounts. Large ones that couldn't be easily explained.

I was left with two choices: the Freeman's Cascade and the Kerrigan's Blade. A few more keystrokes dug up their docking berths.

Two ships. Five hours remaining.

That was a bit more reasonable. Now all I had to do was figure out how to get inside the port—at night—and break into the two ships without alerting security.

* * *

It didn't take long to come up with a plan. Unfortunately, the truth of how and when I came up with said plan would have to stay out of the official AAR. For some reason, my superiors don't like hearing that their operatives got flashes of inspiration while taking a leak.

After doing one last bit of hacking, I made a hasty exit from the cesspit of a motel. My next task was to find Salarian Claus. He was exactly where I'd last seen him. Not surprising: I had the feeling he was the kind of guy who'd just stand there until someone wanted to talk to him.

"Ah, hello there!" he greeted me. "Did you—"

"No, I didn't get any of your toys," I interrupted. "Don't really care what's going on inside that club. Not anymore. I am interested in something else, however."

"Oh?"

"I'd like to get from point A to point B without anyone noticing. And I don't mind if things get cramped along the way."

"Ah," Salarian Claus nodded. "How cramped are we talking about?"

"Let's just say that maintenance tunnels aren't built to luxury standards."

Salarian Claus shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately for you, Bekenstein's officials already thought of that. All the access points to the maintenance tunnels are locked down. They aren't stupid, you know."

"No, I suppose not," I said. "But I imagine they are greedy. One of them must have been willing to accept a... donation in exchange for a couple codes."

"More than one," Salarian Claus laughed.

"Would you know someone who'd be interested in a similar deal?" I suggested.

Salarian Claus looked at me slyly. "Perhaps. But it'll cost you."

"I'm sure we can agree on a fair price," I grinned.

"We'll see," Salarian Claus said.

The haggling didn't take long. I did make a token effort, lest Salarian Claus get suspicious. But I could afford to pay whatever he wanted. That last bit of hacking I did? It dug up the name of the doorman of the Platinum, not to mention his personal accounts. Apparently being a snob paid well. I'm sure he wouldn't miss, say, ten thousand credits. I'm sure I could have negotiated a lower price if I told Salarian Claus whichaccess points I wanted. But I wasn't that stupid. Besides, the doorman _was _really rude.

I went back to the Triple Star, making sure that no one was tailing me. Once I was sure, I casually walked over to the closest tunnel entrance. As I entered the access code Salarian Claus gave me, I kept my fingers crossed and hoped that I wouldn't have to hack the grate—very suspicious if someone caught me—or use up the last of my omni-gel to override the lock. Fortunately, the codes worked.

Unfortunately, the maintenance tunnel was just as cramped as I'd feared. Taking a deep breath, I checked my omni-tool and headed off.

A minute later, I squirmed and wriggled and turned around, having realized that I was heading in the wrong direction.

Several wrong turns later, I emerged from another sewer grate. It was located right underneath the Freeman's Cascade. Good thing it hadn't taken off—my hardsuit could take quite a pounding, but I don't think it was spec'd to withstand engine exhaust at close range. Now if I was _really _lucky...

...yes! The cargo bay doors were open and the ramp was lowered! Anything to load up the Freeman's Cascade a little bit faster. If I could sneak inside, I could check out the containers and crates. All I had to do was get past the two guys on guard duty at the bottom of the ramp. I crept a little bit closer.

"...this is a load of crap," one of them was saying.

"Don't tell the captain that," the other one shrugged. "He'll make you flush out the coolant lines again."

"We don't need to guard the ship ourselves when Port Security would do it for free," the first guy argued. "And we don't need to load up in the middle of the night and leave before sunrise. No one's gonna swipe a bunch of toys. He's only making us do it because the crew of the Kerrigan's Blade and the Sara's Angel are doin' it."

Oh ho.

The second guy looked around furtively. "Yeah, well, I know why the crew of the Sara's Angel's so damn antsy. Word is that they swiped a crate of grenades from the Alliance and were trying to sell it here."

"Really?"

"Really. Problem is, they got busted. Port Security confiscated the grenades, but they bribed the inspectors to let them off the hook. So now they gotta get offworld before anyone else finds out."

"Fine. That explains Sara's Angel. What about the Kerrigan's Blade? Didn't you know her engineer from way back when?"

"Yeah. Got in touch after we landed. Had a drink with him and everything."

"And?"

"And they're just moving _food_. Pre-packaged rations, protein bars, that sort of thing."

"That's _it?_" the first guy sputtered.

"Maybe a couple crates of nutritional drinks," the second guy added.

Bingo.

"Doesn't make sense."

"I know. You ask me, there's something more going on."

"Why didn't you ask?"

"'Cause a buddy of his came over. Real big guy. Built like a brick. Stared at me like he didn't like all my questions and wanted to rip my arms off. So I left."

"Chicken."

"Shut up."

"Make me," the first guy challenged with a shove.

The second guy shoved back. A few seconds later, they were bickering and shoving and getting in each other's faces. Far too busy to notice me hopping over a crate and sneaking onboard their ship. That was a very informative conversation, but it was entirely possible that it was made for my benefit. The quickest way to verify their story was to open up some of their crates and look at their shipment.

My double-check didn't take very long, since none of the crates were locked. Sure enough, the Freeman's Cascade was carrying a shipment of toys. Captain Cosmic action figures, to be precise. Which meant that I had a pretty solid lead on the latest ship to supply the pirates of the Hong system. Not to mention a way to get onboard. After one little detour, that is.

I snuck back out and past the two would-be guards—who were now rolling around on the pavement. Hiding behind a cargo container, I pulled up a map of the port on my omni-tool. If a crate of grenades really had been confiscated, it would be... here! Secure holding facility in Customs. All I had to do was get there.

Easier said than done, I soon discovered. There were a fair number of guards out on patrol. Not a lot, and their leisurely pace suggested they weren't on any kind of heightened alert, but I didn't want any of them spotting me. That would lead to a lot of awkward questions, a lot of sensitive answers and the whole operation would be blown—oh geez!

Coming to a halt, I took a step back and ducked behind a cargo container just before one of the guards could spot me. If I had time to map out their patrol routes, or if the Alliance had given me some intel on said routes, I could have found a gap to slip through. But I didn't have time or intel. Which meant I'd have to make my own gap.

Pulling up my HUD, I began a series of passive sensor sweeps to track all the bio-signs in the immediate vicinity. I waited until the next guard walked by, double-checked my HUD to make sure no one else was nearby, and pounced. Got the guy in a chokehold before he knew what hit him. Once he lost consciousness, I dragged him between a pair of fuel tanks. Hopefully no one would spot him—or note his absence—for a while.

I made it to Customs without having to knock out any more guards on the way. Unfortunately, there were three guards—armed with guns and definitely more alert than the pair I met at the Freeman's Cascade—at the front door. How about the side door, I wondered?

Two guards—one taking a leak, the other taking a nap. Unbelievable. Still, I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I crept up behind the former, waited until he'd finished his business, then whacked him on the back of the head. He dropped like a rock. Sparing a quick look at the other guard to make sure he was out of it—the loud snores kinda confirmed it—I focused on the lock. Pretty good encryption, I discovered, but nothing I couldn't handle. Thirty seconds later, I was in.

I wasn't stupid enough to go to all this trouble, only to blow it by turning on the lights. So I used the flashlight function on my omni-tool, dialing it back just enough so I could see where I was going, and started to look around. Lots of confiscated weapons. I swiped some of the better ones, taking care not to pack too much, and converted the rest to omni-gel. Lots of credit chits too, which I happily helped myself to. Red sand and various drugs, which I passed on. And...

...aha! Grenades. Forty Mark XII's, modified with a high-explosive yield for maximum spread and damage. I grabbed five of them, just in case.

I searched around the rest of the room, hoping for one more miracle. Then the adjacent rooms. Then the rooms on the other side of the hall. Got a few more credits, found out where the washroom was, located a couple offices, stumbled across the mess hall... but I couldn't find a remote detonator. Too much to hope for, I guess. That meant I'd have to improvise—wait. What was that?

Another guard, walking down the hall. Guess they had a man inside Customs as well. I waited until he passed by, snuck up and jumped in. Once he was unconscious, I dragged him back to the side door and dumped him outside by his buddies. Then I went back inside, grabbed the crate of grenades and headed for the mess hall.

Once I arrived, I made a bee-line for the microwaves, weaving my way around all the tables. I double-checked the layout of Customs on my omni-tool. Having decided that the mess hall was far enough from both entrances, I stuffed a couple grenades in each microwave, stacked the rest on top, set the timer for an hour and ran like hell!

I burst out of Customs through the side door, slowing down before I tripped over the two guards who I had knocked out. Not to mention the third guard, who was still snoring like a sailor. Now all I had to do was take a right and head—

A thunderous explosion detonated behind me. Whirling around, I saw a roar of flame and a huge plume of smoke rise up into the air. As distractions go, I'd say that worked out pretty well.

Crouching down, I hid behind yet another cargo container and watched as guards ran towards the Customs building. Not to mention several crew members from the various ships docked in port. In all the confusion, no one noticed one lone man running in the opposite direction. It was a piece of cake to make it to the Kerrigan's Blade. Now how could I get onboard? True, the guards stationed outside were a little distracted, but they were still—hold on.

A cargo mech was stomping up the ramp, four large crates in its arms. It disappeared into the ship for a minute or two, only to emerge empty-handed. As I watched, it stomped down the ramp, over to a stack of crates, picked up another four and started the whole cycle again. I'd just found my ticket in.

Another explosion ripped through the air—I guess a couple grenades didn't blow up the first time. Both guards whipped their heads around and stared at the Customs building. Taking advantage of their distraction, I ran over—as fast as possible considering I was hunched over—opened one of the crates and hid inside.

I felt the crate jostle a bit as the mech picked it up. Then there was a certain amount of drifting, from my perspective, which simply meant that the mini-eezo core was working and the mech was gliding along the tarmac and up the ship's ramp instead of digging a deep groove. Then there was the thud that rattled my bones.

Turning on the HUD, I did a quick scan. No one was in the area, aside from the retreating mech. After counting to thirty, I dared to open the crate and look around. Still nobody. I decided to get out of there before anyone came along—or before the mech dropped another crate on my hiding spot and trapped me with several crumpled containers of squished pasta. I needed to find a new hiding spot for my free trip to Treagir.

* * *

After going to all that trouble to get into the crate and getting out of it, it was kinda ironic that I wound up hiding in a crate again. It was a huge crate, better suited to store lots of freight—or smuggle people in or out of a particular station or planet. For a brief moment, I wondered how many cargo mechs were needed to lift that thing. Then I got back to work.

To my delight, my chosen crate wasn't packed to the rim. In fact, it was only half-full. All I needed was a bit of time to move all the packs of protein bars out and stuff them into other crates. The second bit of luck was that I actually had time to do all that moving, since my little stunt with the grenades had caught everyone's attention.

The third piece of luck was its location. My new home was the top crate in a stack of crates. That would give me the high ground against any attackers. Even better, most people don't look up. So while they might bustle around and carefully search the bottom of the cargo bay, they probably wouldn't exercise similar levels of caution at the top.

Most importantly, the security cams were offline. I wasn't sure why, since a quick check of one of them didn't turn up anything that was wrong. Maybe all the vid-cams throughout the ship were down. Or maybe someone deliberately turned off the ones in the cargo bay to avoid recording anything that could be used against the crew later on. Instinctively, I looked around. I also maxed out the gain on my audio sensors and bio-sensors. Having confirmed that no one was in the neighbourhood, I did a quick diagnostic on the vid-cams. Sure enough, there was nothing wrong with them, so it wasn't an operational thing. Someone really had gone to all the trouble of shutting them off, which meant my intrusion had gone undetected.

I checked my HUD again and did a double-take when my sensor feeds picked up a couple bio-signs. Looked like at least two people were heading my way. As I watched, a third bio-sign appeared. Given that my sensors had a fairly limited range, it was a safe bet that those three people were really, really close to the ship. As I tensed up, I heard what sounded like a footstep on the ship's ramp.

Not waiting for any more footsteps, I quickly and carefully—didn't want to waste all my hard work by raising a racket just because I tripped over a hydrospanner or something—made my way back to the stack of crates and started climbing up to my new home away from home. It only took thirty seconds or so to reach the crate. As I slowly closed the door, I heard footsteps on the ramp, which changed in tone as the three people actually entered the cargo bay.

I belatedly realized that I'd been holding my breath. As I exhaled, I thought I felt a faint vibration running through the bottom of the crate. Crouching down, I placed a palm on the 'floor' and boosted the feeds from the sensors in my palm. Sure enough, there were definite vibrations. Either there was one heck of a party starting in the cargo bay or the Kerrigan's Blade was warming up her engines. Assuming it was the latter, we were about to take off. Guess the crew didn't want to stick around the port and see what would blow up next.

Fine with me, I decided. Now that I'd found the ship and settled in, I was kinda eager to get this show on the road. With any luck, I'd be blowing up a few more things—or pirates—in a short while.

Hopefully, I'd be forgiven for not gift-wrapping any grenades, improvised explosives or bullets.


	3. IEDs, Bullets and Other Presents

**Chapter Three: IEDs, Bullets and Other Presents **

One of the good things about being a sniper is that you develop a finely honed patience. You need to be patient when performing recon for days on end, because even the dumbest or most minute detail could be important. It's the only way to locate high-value targets, track his or her movements, factor instuff like environmental variables or obstacles, and pick the right time to pull the trigger.

That patience comes in handy when you're stuck in a crate with nothing to do. It's not as if the crate offered much to see or explore. It wasn't tricked out with the latest entertainment hardware or toys. After all the effort I'd gone to clear it out, it was completely empty. Boring. All that training and experience was the only thing that kept me from getting bored to tears. Almost made up for all the sleep I'd lost.

I managed to find a few ways to pass the time, though. Cracked open the mods that Morgan sent me and started slotting them in. The heat sinks went into the pistols and assault rifles. It was important to keep rapid-fire weapons—especially something like the assault rifle—from overheating. Conversely, I installed the high-caliber barrels into my shotgun and sniper rifle. Only the most delusional of civvies would mistake them for rapid-fire weapons. The increased damage from the barrels was worth the risk of overheating, especially if it meant the difference between a dead pirate and a dead Alliance operative like myself. Of course, there was the chance that the weapons would permanently seize up instead of cooling down. That's what my other weapons were for.

After installing the accompanying software. If there was ever a downside to weapon mods, that would be it—I swear, it takes forever to get it up and running. You wouldn't think that weapon mods _needed _software. Certainly the vast majority of customers—law-abiding and otherwise—didn't think so. With any luck, the manufacturers would figure that out sooner or later. Until then...

Normally, I'd put that off until I had nothing better to do. Surprise, surprise: right now, I had nothing better to do. So I sat by and patiently waited for the installation window to pop up, clicked 'No' to the inevitable prompt of whether I wanted to register my mod online—after all the work I'd gone to find this ship and hide in this dull and depressingly drab crate, it would be ridiculous to scrap all that by opening an unauthorized and unsecure extranet link that any idiot with half a brain could detect.

Then I sat back and twiddled my thumbs. I suppose I could've double-checked the ammo blocks to make sure they didn't need replacing. But it was a bit too late for that. I mean, where was I gonna go to find new ones? Maybe I could pop outside, knock on a few doors and—

—hey! The installation was finished. Time to start the next one. Yes, I was only installing one weapon mod at a time. You can't fire a weapon while the mod software is installing. Not unless you want to thoroughly screw up the targeting auto-assist, the magnetic accelerators, the mass effect micro-generators or—with my luck—all of the above and a whole lot more. Point is, if I installed the mod software on all of my weapons simultaneously, and I got caught, I'd have nothing to defend myself with. Except my foul language, which the pirates were probably used to. And my charm, which I didn't want to use after the admin lady debacle. And the grenades, which I had a limited supply of.

Besides, by doing things one at a time, I could kill a little more time. And a little more patience. Both of which were better than having someone kill, say, me.

So I holstered my newly upgraded pistol and started on my sniper rifle.

And then my assault rifle.

And then my shotgun.

And then...

...

...uh...

Time to calibrate my hardsuit!

And maybe my omni-tool. Why not?

While I was doing that, I should—no. Wait until the calibrations were finished. Which was far too soon for my liking. But once the calibrations were complete, then I could run a full security sweep. You never knew what computer viruses you might pick up while downloading files. Granted, you could minimize the risks by staying away from dodgy sites like certain little bearded NCOs who shall remain unnamed.

I waited—and waited and waited—for the calibrations to finish. Can you believe that some people get _paid _to do this? Sit around doing calibrations all day. Must be the dullest, most boring job _ever_! Mind you, at least those people don't get shot at. Or dragged into life-threatening situations despite their best efforts. So maybe there's an upside to all that drudgery.

Sadly, the calibrations were soon complete. The security sweeps finished just as quickly. Which left me with nothing to do.

Except think about how the heck I was gonna pull this off. Granted, the idea of me actually thinking was just as dangerous as it sounded, but it was a whole lot better than getting killed. Knowing my luck, Ellie would probably find my bullet-ridden corpse and bring me back from the dead, just so she could throttle me herself.

At least, I wouldn't have to worry about the turrets. I would have dreaded the prospect of facing those things without a fully-armed Mako to blow them up—or, more likely, use to make a fast getaway if things went completely pear-shaped—particularly since I didn't have one. All thanks to Beckman and Graham unfairly questioning my driving abilities.

But, luckily for me, the pirates would shut the turrets off. Accidentally blowing up a ship carrying your supplies wasn't the best plan in the playbook, after all. Especially if it meant detonating a starship-grade eezo core right on top of you. All I had to do was sneak my way through and out of the cargo hold across whatever the pirates were using as a landing pad and get into the compound.

And then...

...

...well, that was the problem, wasn't it?

Even with the rosiest estimates, I was still looking at 10-to-1 odds. Which might be okay if they were all spread out and I could take them out one by one. But they'd all come clustering together at the first gunshot, either by my hand or by one of theirs. And then I'd be screwed—and not, alas, in a good way.

Ideally, I'd just take them all out. Commandeering the Kerrigan's Blade, setting it on a collision course with the compound and ejecting at the last minute would be the simplest way. Pirates wouldn't suspect anything until it was too late. Unfortunately, I couldn't say that the crew of this ship 'deserved' it. All I knew for sure was that the captain was heavily in debt after one—or two or ten—too many games of Skyllian Five poker and desperately needed the cash. Killing the entire crew for the captain's financial problems seemed a bit much.

Maybe I could blow up the compound with the grenades I scooped from the Customs building. It's not as if I regularly used them. There were two problems, though. First, grenades couldn't level an entire building just by randomly throwing them around. Believe me; the galactic casualty rate would skyrocket if they were that powerful. Since they didn't have that much bang for the proverbial buck, I'd have to find a key place to plant them. The compound's eezo core or the coolant systems, perhaps.

At least, I'd know where to look: there was a very good chance that the compound on Treagir would be like every other ground-based compound out there. Seriously: every contractor in the galaxy used the exact same blueprint: an entrance area that was long and narrow, opening up into a large central area that would inevitably be packed with a veritable maze of disorganized and haphazardly arranged crates, with a T-shaped corridor at the far end that led to two smaller rooms. Governments and military REMFs encouraged this, citing that it would make it easier for troops and security officers to defend if they had a standard layout to work with. Grunts, pirates and everyone else with half a brain knew that this standard layout would also make it embarrassingly easy to devise a plan of attack.

Of course, what I was looking for was probably in one of the rooms at the end of the T-shaped corridor. Which meant I'd have to actually go _through _the compound and avoid all the pirates. That part wasn't so easy, embarrassingly so or otherwise. But I'd cross that bridge when I got to it.

The second problem was that I had grenades, not bombs or other explosives. Unless I wanted to toss the grenades at the eezo core or whatever and run like hell, I'd need to set them on some sort of timer or remote detonation switch. Not that big a deal, except for the minor little fact that grenades don't come with those things.

Hmm...

Maybe I could tinker with the grenade circuitry and alter the detonation sequence. I opened one grenade up and started poking around...

...

...was that red light blinking a second ago?

...

Aw, crap.

I hastily reversed whatever I did, hoping I got it right. The red light went out.

Holding my breath, I waited for another minute, just to make sure the damn thing didn't blow up in my face. It didn't.

Time to think of another plan, since I clearly wasn't a bomb expert.

Hmm...

I could create my own timer and sync it with the grenade. Or grenades, since I might need more than one. But that would require cannibalizing something else. Hardsuit was out—with my luck, I'd just damage or disable something important. Like life support, for example. And I wasn't even going to _touch _my omni-tool—my song list is on the damn thing, after all!

The only other items I had the weapons. Sniper rifle was out, of course. So was the pistol, simply because it was the most accurate of any of my weapons. Hell, on my last mission, I killed half a dozen targets with my pistol, when they were far enough away to warrant the use of my sniper rifle. No way I was giving up the pistol. That left the shotgun and the assault rifle. I stopped to think about the kind of firefights I might wind up in. Close quarters, potentially bumping into hostiles at point-blank range, the clear and present need to take them out right away... that was right up the alley of the redneck's favourite weapon: the shotgun.

That left the assault rifle, by process of elimination. I contemplated having a moment of silence. Something to acknowledge the sacrifice that was required.

Then I reached over my shoulder, pulled out the assault rifle and began disassembling it.

Taking the assault rifle apart didn't take long. The tricky part was finding the necessary components and figuring out how to jury-rig a remote detonation timer. Yes, I did actually learn how to do that in N-School, but that was with Hahne-Kedar weapons. The instructors would actually put on dance music while we stripped that crap down to its basic parts. Unfortunately, Haliat Armoury built their weapons differently. Not because they were turians, but because every weapons manufacturer had to stroke their own ego by building things in a completely different configuration. So I wasted a bit of time double-checking and triple-checking everything.

I suppose it was worth it in the end. Managed to scrounge up enough components to build _two _bombs instead of one, and I only used up four grenades.

After that was finished, I had nothing else to do.

So I took a nap.

* * *

I woke up when the Kerrigan's Blade landed. And by landed, I meant dropped down and hit the landing pad with enough force to make the ship shake and my teeth rattle. Plus, my head wound up bouncing against the crate. I wasn't too concerned about that last part—the fact that I got stuck in this idiotic solo mission when I could be having turkey dinner with Ellie was a clear sign that I had already suffered serious brain damage. Though maybe I should have her run a scan, just in case. Even though she had yet to get that neurology fellowship, she'd devoured and memorized every paper and procedure ever published in the field. She always was a keener.

But I digress. Time to make my move.

Opening the crate, I took a quick peek around. There were a couple people in the area, judging by the muted voices I heard and the contacts picked up by my hardsuit sensors. However, none of them were actually looking _up_, focusing more on unloading their clients' supplies.

Taking advantage of their distraction, I left my temporary, albeit spartan, home and began climbing down the mountain of crates. As I clambered, shuffled and hopped down, I helped myself to a few goodies. I wasn't stupid enough to actually rummage through the crates. Not this time, anyway. But if I happened to pass by a spare omni-tool or mod that just happened to be sitting out there in the open, I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.

I may have paused to stare at the omni-tool and silently curse myself for not swiping thatearlier. If I had grabbed it, I could have used _its _components to jury-rig my timers instead of using up my assault rifle. Note to self: be more alert next time. You never know when spare loot could come in handy. Besides, if the knuckleheads who owned it were lazy enough to leave it lying around, then they clearly didn't deserve to keep it.

Getting to the bottom wasn't that hard. Sneaking out of the ship, though, that was another story. What this situation called for was a distraction. I hefted a nearby crate. Bit too heavy for what I had in mind. I rummaged through my pockets and dug up the loot I'd found so far. Which was more valuable: a Mark II Bluewire omni-tool from Aldrin Labs or a Mark I Combat Scanner? Actually, both of them were pretty useless. But the Bluewire would fetch more creds on the market. So I put away the omni-tool, tossed the combat scanner up and down a couple times to get a sense of its weight, then hurled it across the cargo bay.

It made a loud clang when it hit the wall and an even louder crash when it knocked over a couple cans of soda that hadn't been properly packaged for some reason. The resulting cacophony got everyone's attention. I ducked down behind a crate and checked my HUD. According to the readings, anyone who wasn't rushing over to investigate the unexpected crash was certainly moving in that general direction. So I quickly zipped out of the cargo bay like a heavily-armed Quasimodo.

I found cover behind another crate just as quickly, before the pirates could see me. There were two of them, stationed on some sort of patrol route. I held my breath and waited as one of them got closer, closer... and stopped, ten metres away. A few seconds passed as he casually looked around. Then he turned and headed back the way he came. I left my hidey-hole and scrambled towards a set of barrels. So far, so good.

My next target was a really big shipping container that was sitting outside the compound entrance. The second pirate was standing right in front of them, however. Fortunately, he was facing the other way.

Keeping a close eye on him, I double-timed it from the barrels to the container. No reaction. I waited a few more seconds to make sure before making my move for the entrance.

Surprisingly, no one saw me. The reason for that became clear when I entered the first room: the pirate stationed there was listening to some media program that was being streamed over the extranet. One of those extreme nuts, going on and on about genetic and cybernetic augmentations and how they were polluting the human body. All that ranting made it really easy to slip by him.

Now for the central cargo area. There was a life-sign right at the entrance, about nine metres from me. Eight metres... seven metres...

...still seven metres...

...eight metres... nine metres. Peering around the corner, I saw a pirate walk away, his back turned to me. I quickly entered the room, hopping over a crate and ducking behind a piece of machinery before he could turn back.

The next hiding spot was a pair of long crates, stacked one on top of the other. Unfortunately, there were three pirates that were a bit too close for comfort. As I watched, one kept walking, disappearing behind another stack of crates. Another turned around, tapping on his omni-tool. And the third walked towards me, stopped, casually looked around, then turned back. No one was looking in my direction, so I went on my way.

I almost made it to the far end. Almost being the operative word: if it wasn't for my sensors giving me a heads-up, I would've walked right into another pirate. He was a big guy, bald, with skin almost as black as the hardsuit he was wearing. Definitely not the kind of guy I'd wanna mess with. So I waited until he left before making my way to the door and into the corridor.

Now which way should I go? Left or right? Left, I decided.

That led me to a room full of lockers. It waskinda funny, considering none of them were actually, you know, _locked_. Remembering the unnecessary sacrifice of my assault rifle, I started going through the lockers. Empty, empty, chit for 20 credits, empty, empty, empty, empty...

...this could take a while.

Empty, empty, empty, empty, emp—ooh! Hahne-Kedar pistol! Can you say omni-gel?—empty, empty, empty, empty, empty, empty, combat scanner mod to replace the one I used as a distraction, empty, empty, empty, empty, empty, empty, empty, empty and... empty.

Well that was disappointing. The only other thing of importance in this room were a pair of thin cylinders that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, with a console embedded nearby in the wall. If memory served, that was the satellite communications grid. I quickly set up one of my improvised explosive devices there before continuing on my way. Hopefully the other room would prove more fruitful.

I headed across the hall, pausing only when I heard footsteps. The footsteps grew softer before fading away. So I continued on my way.

'Paydirt!' was the first thought that crossed my mind when I stepped inside. There was a big honking piece of machinery right in front of me. This big contraption with three boxy things around a round pivot that kept spinning and spinning, letting out a deep thrum and a soft pulse of blue light with each revolution. I had to resist the urge to cover the family jewels—even the most basic eezo core has at least two or three safety features built-in. No one wants to get accidentally sterilized. Or risk giving birth to a kid with brain tumours or physical deformities—yes, yes, there's also a chance that the kid will be perfectly normal or become a somewhat-functional biotic, but who'd want to take a gamble like that?

In any event, it looked like this was the ticket. I could set the bomb up, sneak out and set the bomb off from a nice, safe distance.

Before I did that, I thought I'd do some more investigating. Find out what the pirates were stealing and selling. I found a nearby computer console and started poking around. Looked like they weren't targeting anything in particular. Luxury furniture, skycars, cutting-edge fabricators—anything that would fetch a hefty price, in other words. Their latest shipment...

...

...well...

...I guess I could blow it up. It wouldn't cause any immediate damage.

But if I could somehow preserve those items, they could do a lot of good.

Now how could I do that?

"Hey!"

Aw, crap.

I turned around. There were five or six pirates. All with guns pointed at me.

All of a sudden, I had a much better question on my mind.

* * *

"Who are you?"

The pirates dragged me back into the central room and brought me before their boss—the big bald black guy I'd spotted earlier. "You'd better talk fast," he told me in a deep, bass voice. "My boys haven't killed anyone today. It's an unofficial quota thing, you see. Nothing personal."

"Right," I said dryly.

The big bald black guy reached down—did I mention he was at least two or three feet taller than me?—and pulled me towards him. "Now," he growled. "I'm only gonna say this one more time: Who. Are. You?"

"Han Solo," I deadpanned.

"Okay, 'Han.'" Judging by the way he said that, the big bald black guy probably didn't buy my act and assumed it was some sort of legend or alias. Either that or he'd also watched Star Wars. "People call me Mr. Colt."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"Now that we've been properly introduced, tell me everything."

Colt shook me when I didn't immediately respond. The sad thing is, it worked.

"Okay, okay, okay," I hastily replied. "See, the thing is I was gonna spend a nice quiet relaxing vacation with my sister who's not really my sister and her boyfriend who's definitely her boyfriend when I got sent all the way out here because I kinda sorta do random stuff for random people at random times—I sorta bounce between jobs, or at least I call it a job, most people wouldn't call the stuff I usually get hired for a job, per se. And in this case, the job is, well, getting you and all your buddies to turn yourselves in."

Colt stared at me. As truthful as my ramble had been, it was vague enough to be completely and utterly unhelpful—all that time slumming around with REMFs and politicians had finally paid off. "So you're some kind of negotiator?"

"Something like that," I shrugged.

"And you want us to turn ourselves in?"

"Yep."

"Why would I tell my men to do that?" Colt asked.

"Because people find me imposing," I tried. "Go ahead. You can be honest: I was going for imposing."

Colt looked down—and down and down and down—at me. There was a long pause.

"That is the single dumbest thing I have ever heard," Colt said at last.

"Fair enough," I allowed. "But if you kill me, you should know that a number of people will be really, really upset."

"Well, I have to kill you anyway," Colt admitted. He moved his left arm up and across to his right, grabbed it with his right hand and pulled. "No matter how many people are gonna be upset. See: you saw my face. You heard my voice. You know my name."

"So? I forget lots of things," I said. "Ask anyone: I forget things all the time. Faces, names, passwords—you name it, I forgot it."

"Can't take that chance," Colt told me. He moved his right arm up and across to his left, almost as if he was… "What exactly are you doing?" I asked.

"Stretching. Getting limber."

"Why are you doing that?"

"So I don't pull a muscle when I break your neck or pull your limbs off."

Aw, crap.

"Maybe you should get limber too."

I slowly looked around. There were eighteen pirates surrounding me, plus Mr. Colt. Add the three pirates I saw outside—none of whom I saw in here with me—and that made twenty-two. I also saw the weapons, grenade and improvised bomb in a pile on the side, where they had been sitting since the pirates frisked me.

"What are you waiting for?" Colt asked, looking up at me as he reached down to touch his toes (or boot tips). "Don't you get it? You're all alone, Han—if that _is _your real name."

And that's when I came up with a plan. Not a great plan. Just an ad-hoc, last-ditch, kinda sorta plan that might keep my neck unbroken for another minute or so. I gave him a cool, confident glare and pasted Hero Smile #3 (Give Up Now, and No One Gets Hurt) on my face. Colt paused at this sudden change.

"My name is Charles Carmichael of the Systems Alliance, and _you're _the one who doesn't get it," I said.

Colt started to smile.

I kept smiling back. "I don't think you gentlemen understand the gravity of the predicament you're in. We've known all about this compound and the others in the Hong system. That's right. See, all the piracy you've been up to over the last six months? Yeah, we traced that. Right now, this compound alone is currently surrounded by twenty-three Vanguards, sixteen Infiltrators, seven Soldiers, four Adepts and enough ammunition to send a clan of krogan into orbit."

As I talked, some of the pirates started shuffling and exchanging nervous glances. The rest of them looked at me as if they were wondering what I was smoking. "That's fifty guys with military-grade weapons and biotics, for those of you who can't do math or don't know Alliance terminology," I continued. "You're outmatched and outgunned. Those peashooters you're packing? Might as well be sharp sticks and foul language, as far as I'm concerned."

Everyone was looking at Colt now. He looked at two of them and gave a nod. One of them tapped a command on his omni-tool. The other one lifted a hand to his ear, clearly contacting someone. "Nothing there, boss," the first guy said.

"We're clear," the second guy confirmed.

Colt chuckled. "Good try," he offered.

"Of course you don't see them," I interrupted them with a sneer. "Who do you think we are? A bunch of FNGs?" I turned to Colt and stared him in the eyes. "The only thing you're gonna see is a muzzle flash, followed by a first-class ticket straight to Hell. So why don't you make the smart choice and give up?"

Colt rolled his head around, evidently stretching his neck muscles, before taking a step towards me. "Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait," I stopped him. "I wouldn't do that. You don't believe me?" I motioned towards my omni-tool. "Why don't you ask my friend? I think you'll wanna hear what he has to say."

"Put it on speaker," Colt ordered.

"Sure thing," I shrugged. I tapped in the last call relayed through my omni-tool and let it ring, hoping that I could establish a decent real-time connection all the way out here.

To my relief, Morgan picked up. _"Hello?" _

There was a bit of gunfire in the background. Probably from his extranet games, but the pirates didn't know that—they make some _incredibly _realistic games these days.

"Hey there," I said calmly.

"_Hey! How's it going?"_

"Same old, same old," I replied. "Listen, I'd like you to tell me the exact specs for the team surrounding the compound."

"_The whole shebang?"_ Morgan asked.

"The whole shebang," I confirmed.

"_Yes, sir. We have __twenty-three Vanguards, sixteen Infiltrators, seven Soldiers and four Adepts."_

Any grin, sneer or look of confidence washed right of the ugly mugs of every single pirate in the room. Even Colt.

"_I should tell you that we got a little impatient and took out one of the sentries. Don't worry, it was a headshot. He didn't get a chance to tell his buddies. Oh, you should have _seen _it, man. It was beautiful! His head exploded like a watermelon!" _

"Thanks," I said before cutting the comm transmission—and carefully setting a countdown—on my omni-tool.

"They must've gotten Fritz," one of the pirates fretted.

"I thought he was going to the can," another one said.

"That was ten minutes ago!"

"One more time," I told Colt, unleashing a fresh dose of Hero's Smile #3. "Give up."

...

...

All the pirates jumped as an explosion rang out. That would be my first IED taking apart the sat com and cutting the pirates' communication link—and mine, unfortunately—with the rest of the galaxy.

"Damn it!" Colt cursed. "Spread out, everyone. Keep your eyes sharp and check everywhere. Don't let anything get past you!"

Too late: while everyone was distracted, I grabbed my gear, hastily shoved everything onto my person and made a run for it.

* * *

As I sprinted past the crates, I hastily tried to hack into the compound's PA system. I figured that I could insert a couple soundtracks of gunfire to randomly belt out from the speakers, keep everyone off-balance. Unfortunately, hacking and running doesn't really go hand in hand. One slip of the hand tripped a countermeasure and locked me out of the system.

Great, I thought sourly. Could anything else go wrong?

"Hey!"

One of these days, I'll learn to stop handing the universe lines like that. Without thinking, I whipped out a weapon and fired.

Turns out a shotgun tricked out with a high-caliber barrel, fired at point-blank range, can make short work of a pirate's head. Especially when there's no helmet to get in the way. Almost made the _**ERROR** _message I got over the HUD when the shotgun overheated worthwhile. One down, twenty-one to go.

Of course, that attracted everyone's attention. Time to run. Faster.

As I sprinted my way—no, take a left, right turn's a dead end—I started plotting my next move. Twenty-one armed pirates, eighteen of which were stuck in here with me. No allies. Three guns, one grenade, one IED. Even with virtually infinite ammo, the guns would only take me so far. Grenade would only help take out one or two pirates. IED might bump the count up to four or five, but that was it. Not much, since they were all spread out. If only they were all clustered together...

Clustered together...

Hmm...

I hopped onto a crate, jumped forward and pushed off the wall. In the vids, such a move would send the protagonist soaring effortlessly over some nameless bad guy or obstacle. In real life, I kinda collided with the stack of crates I was trying to clear and knocked the whole damn thing over. Got a lot of attention. Even more so than the shotgun. I scrambled to my feet and kept moving, trying to dodge the crates—and their contents—that were now strewn everywhere.

The bullets flying in my general direction might have given a little encouragement, come to think of it.

Diving into the entrance area and skidding on my chest plate, I sighed as the doors hissed shut behind me. Then I looked up. The pirate who'd been listening to the extranet broadcast earlier was now paying very close attention to me. Our eyes met briefly. In a 'Oh crap, this guy's gonna kill me, what should I do?' kind of way.

I reached for my gun. He reached for mine. I shot first.

Two down, twenty to go.

"Sorry," I apologized to the corpse, reaching over to grab a crate. As I dragged it to the doorway to provide some cover against the pirates about to storm out of the central cargo room, I added: "It's not your fault that sniper rifles were never meant to be fired at such close range. If it makes you feel better, my ears are still ringing."

Over all that ringing, I thought I heard sharp barking sounds. A few staccatos here and there.

Then my shields rippled as it absorbed a high-velocity impact. Guess I wasn't hearing things.

Lifting my head up, I swivelled my sniper rifle over the crate and fired. And missed. Damn it. Guess I needed some more practise time on the target range. Well, I could do that when I got back.

I ducked as a hail of bullets cut through the air. If I got back, I amended.

Popping back up, I lined up a shot. Ignoring the bullets draining my shields, I let out a breath and fired. This time I didn't miss.

Three down, nineteen to go.

It wasn't worth losing any more shield strength just to see the brains spray out of my target's head, so I ducked back down. While the bullet storm resumed, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my second IED. Time to set it—wait, what was that?

Another pirate burst in. Not from the cargo area. From outside. Guess he heard all the commotion and wanted to see what was going on. Unfortunately for him, I already had my sniper rifle aimed. He was a bit taller than I'd guessed, so I wouldn't have scored a headshot. But the bullet did rip right through his shields and hit his hardsuit, sending him staggering back. Before he could recover, I dropped my sniper rifle—damn thing had overheated—lifted my shotgun and fired.

Four down, eighteen to go.

I switched over to my pistol and fired a few random shots back into the cargo area before turning my attention back to the IED, hoping that I'd bought myself a little time. With two weapons frantically trying to vent heat, I had nothing but a pistol and a grenade to defend myself while I set things up. It would only take a couple seconds—ten, tops—but that required focused concentration. The kind of focus that can let someone sneak up and get the drop on you.

For once, the universe decided to throw me a bone and let me finish in peace. Maybe my luck's changing. Heck, I even had time to hack into the PA system. It's amazing what you can do these days with a dead guy's omni-tool. Before you sell it for scrap, that is.

The sounds of the orchestra—led by the clear, clarion call of the trumpet—distracted the pirates long enough for me to shoot another one in the head. Even managed to wait long enough to see the body collapse.

"_It's the most wonderful time of the year!"_

Minus the head, which was, you know, gone.

Andy Williams continued to sing 'It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year', his crooning voice slightly muffled by the resumption in hostilities. All those bullets and gunshots kinda drowned out the kids jingle-belling and ruined any chance of good cheer in the near future.

I got up and fired another shot. From my sniper rifle, which had actually cooled down remarkably fast. Guess the geth really did know how to build them. Another pirate went down for the count.

Five and six down, sixteen to go.

"_It's the hap-happiest season of all!" _

Was it me or were the gunshots getting louder? I checked my HUD.

Nope. Wasn't imagining things: the gunshots were getting louder. So were the pirates. They were packed together so tight, my HUD couldn't distinguish them. It just gave up and showed them as one big red blob. Good enough, I decided. Aiming over my shoulder, I fired a few pistol shots. The cry told me at least one or two bullets actually penetrated. Good. I armed the IED and ran for the door, holstering the sniper rifle and pistol.

"_There'll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for roast—_oof!"

That last part came from me when I barrelled out the compound door and ran right into the last pirate guard. Knocked him right over. But he got back up. I hit him, knocking him back down. But he got up again. So I hit him, knocked him back down and fired my shotgun. This time, he didn't get back up.

Seven down, fifteen to go.

Switching to my sniper rifle, I looked around. The Kerrigan's Blade was still on the landing pad. Guess the crew hadn't finished off-loading supplies yet. A ship would provide as good a vantage point as any, so I ran over and started clambering over crates.

"Hey! Whaddaya think you're doin'?"

I looked down at some guy with a sweat-stained shirt, some grubby overalls and a day's worth of mustache and raised an eyebrow. He looked up at a guy wearing a full hardsuit and armed to the teeth with guns. "Never mind," he offered.

Smart guy.

"Keep your head down and don't go anywhere," I instructed. "This'll all be over soon."

Getting on top of the Kerrigan's Blade, I pulled out my sniper rifle and made myself comfortable. If my timing was right, the IED should be going off just... about...

"_BOOM!"_

...now.

I boosted the gain on my sensors and did an active scan. Aside from the crew of the Kerrigan's Blade, there were four dots on my HUD. That meant the kill count was up to eighteen.

Call me greedy, but I was hoping for more.

Letting out a sigh, I peered through the scope of my sniper rifle. Sooner or later, someone would come out. Like the guy slowly sticking his head out. That's it…

…come out…

…just a little further…

I exhaled, centred my shot and pulled the trigger. Guy staggered. I kept one eye on him through the scope. The other eye watched the feed streaming from the sniper rifle to my hardsuit HUD, waiting to see when the heat meter dipped enough for me to fire another shot. Thankfully, I didn't need it, since the pirate finally collapsed.

Nineteen down, three to go.

There was a pause. Then all three pirates—including Mr. Colt—came barrelling out and charged towards me. No doubt they were banking on strength in numbers. I had to give them credit—they did not appreciate me offing all their buddies like that. Guess there's still a little honour amongst thieves. Or pirates

Only problem was, it wasn't gonna be easy taking out three fast-moving targets. I peered through the scope and centered on one of them. Small, wiry guy. Kept darting back and forth. But there was a pattern to his movement. It was just a matter of extrapolating his path and firing at the right moment.

Twenty down, two to go.

Colt and his last pal broke into a sprint. Just my luck. I watched their progress uneasily, silently urging the sniper rifle to cool down. I didn't need it to vent all the heat. Just enough for me to fire another shot—aha! Aimed, adjusted the shot and fired. Not my best work, but it did the job. Twenty-one down, one more to go.

Now where was he?

"Looking for me?" a deep bass voice asked as a big shadow loomed over me.

Aw, crap.

I whirled around and pulled the trigger. Nothing. Sniper rifle had completely seized up. I tossed it at him, buying myself enough time to grab my shotgun and fire at point-blank range. Colt let it bounce off him like it was nothing and kept coming. Scrambling to my feet, I grabbed my last grenade, lobbed it at him and jumped, hoping to clear the blast radius. A loud explosion added a little extra impetus—and a lot more heat—to my leap. I landed on the roof of the Kerrigan's Blade—hard. Coughing, I got to my hands and knees and turned around.

A big, armoured hand reached down, got a firm grip and yanked me up.

"No hard feelings?" I tried, grinning at Mr. Colt.

He glared at me before ripping the shotgun out of my hands and throwing it away.

"Right?"

In response, Colt lifted me up over his head and tossed me off the Kerrigan's Blade without breaking a sweat—or pulling a muscle.

* * *

The phrase 'They don't make 'em like they used to' is usually employed to express how things have gone downhill. How standards have dropped. How the bottom line is more important than the values that used to be touted. How stuff available in the present is so cheap, poorly made and completely inferior compared to past goods.

When it comes to hardsuits, I'm happy to say that that phrase does not always apply. If it did, the sensors wouldn't have detected my sudden descent and reconfigured my shields accordingly. Specifically, my shields wouldn't have switched to a configuration that distributed the tremendous force of the abrupt stop when I belly-flopped onto the pavement as evenly as possible. Otherwise, I might have either smashed into the pavement because my shields were too weak or smashed into my shields because they were too strong.

Don't get me wrong: it still hurt like hell. But at least I was still alive. Which was another thing that modern hardsuits were good at: slowly administering medi-gel when needed to take the edge off.

The sudden impact of bullets against what was left of my shields reminded me that even if they _do _make 'em like they used to, if not better, that doesn't mean they can handle anything. There is a limit. And my hardsuit was starting to reach it. Time to move. If I didn't, Colt would kill me. Or Ellie, if she ever found out.

Standing around wasn't much good—Colt had the high ground and, judging by how quickly those bullets were hitting me, a very fast and powerful assault rifle. I couldn't hide on the other side of the compound, since Colt's vantage point—my old vantage point—gave him a clear line of sight. Heck, I couldn't even run for the hills, since Colt would just cut me down before I made a hundred metres.

So that left going back inside. Back into the lion's den. I felt like I was being herded into a trap, but what else could I do? Part of me figured I could just duck in, hide, wait for Colt to storm in, then sneak back out.

That was also the part that still believed that Santa had awfully girly penmanship that looked suspiciously like Ellie's.

There was nothing I could use in the first room, so I ran into the central cargo area. Nice, big, lots of places to hide. And nothing to use as a weapon except the pistol I had in my hand. And a few crates full of supplies. And…

…

…hmm.

A canister, you say?

And what exactly were those readings?

You know, that just might work.

Colt wasn't here yet. Guess he wasn't in a hurry to break his legs by hopping off the ship. That bought me some more time, which I could use to do a thorough scan of the area. I needed to know a couple things. The configuration of this impromptu maze of crates I was in. Where the dead ends were.

And, most importantly, just how many of those canisters there were.

* * *

When Colt came in, the first thing he heard was a cheerful "Heads up!" from yours truly, followed by a canister thrown straight at him. It ruptured upon impact, spewing a thick green cloud of noxious toxic fumes. Not that it mattered, since he was wearing a helmet and had established atmospheric seals in his hardsuit. But that cloud did obscure his vision long enough for me to reach for another canister. The kind that had very volatile chemicals that didn't take kindly to being jostled or tossed around. The kind that made a very satisfying explosion upon impact.

Then I ran a little deeper into the room and to my right, stopping near another explosive canister.

"Chuck," Colt yelled. "You're starting to upset me."

"Story of my life," I yelled back. I watched on my HUD as Colt followed me. A little further… close enough. I tossed that canister and ran to the next hiding spot. One that was right behind him and had another canister close at hand. I watched him stagger a bit. Man, he could take a beating. Ditto with the hardsuit. Still, I had a fair number of canisters lying around. I figured I could keep this up for a while.

Tossing another canister, I was on my way to the next stop when it blew up. I skidded to a stop, lifted another canister and hurled it at Colt. This one, however, didn't blow up. So I had to stop again, double back, pull out my pistol and double-tap the canister. _Then_ it went boom.

"How long you gonna keep this up, Chuck?" Colt called out.

"I don't know," I shouted back. "How many canisters do you have?"

He didn't respond. Probably because he didn't hear me, what with the ears ringing from yet another canister exploding upon impact against his hardsuit. That was fine—he'd managed to tag me with a couple dozen shots from his assault rifle. Really did a number on my shields. Time to find some more canisters.

Turned out that there were four canisters that could blow up at the slightest disturbance. Plus one or two more canisters full of gas that really, really shouldn't be inhaled. Unfortunately for Colt, all those explosions—plus several careful pistol shots—kinda cracked his helmet. Which meant the atmospheric seals were broken. Which meant he got a couple lungfuls of toxic fumes. Which meant he was in no shape whatsoever to put up a fight.

I tossed the last toxic canister at him and let him choke on it. Just to make sure.

Then I dragged him back to the locker room. I was gonna give him a dose of medi-gel, but then he got to his feet. So I dashed back to the door.

"Nicely done, Mr. Carmichael," Colt said approvingly. "Don't think anyone managed to beat me before."

"Always a first time," I pointed out.

"Ain't that a fact. So now what?"

"Now my bosses come, pick you up, take you to somewhere out of the way and ask you a whole lotta questions," I replied. "And if they like your answers, the next stop might be a little cozier."

"So you're doing this for the Alliance?"

"Maybe," I shrugged. "And maybe I like the idea of a big guy like you owing a little guy like me a favour."

"If someone ever hires me to take you out," Colt offered, "I'll do it nice and clean. You won't feel a thing."

"I was thinking more along the lines of saving my life or doing me a solid," I admitted.

"Yeah, I was afraid you would."

Funny thing: I think he'd actually do it. One professional to another, that sort of thing. Not that I was gonna stick around and verify that. I reached for the control panel, then paused. "Thanks for the tip," I added.

"What tip?"

"Stretching before exercise," I clarified. "Didn't pull a muscle hauling your ass all the way back here."

Colt was still laughing when I closed the door.

Once I locked it shut and made sure he wouldn't be able to open it from the inside, I ran back outside. Hopefully, the Kerrigan's Blade hadn't taken off yet. Though with my luck…

…

…will wonders never cease. It was still there. I activated my comm, setting it to broadcast on multiple frequencies. The ship was bound to be listening to at least one of them. "Hey!" I called out. "You listening?"

"_Yeah,"_ a lady replied after a pause. _"Look, we don't want any trouble. We're not bad people. We just needed a paying job. Bad."_

"I get that," I replied. "And I'm willing to look the other way. You can keep the credits."

"_Really?"_

"Really."

…

…

"So what's the catch?"

I looked back at the compound. "How do you feel about making a free delivery?"

* * *

The crew of the Kerrigan's Blade was so grateful that I wasn't going to turn them in, that they pulled out all the stops. They loaded all the food supplies that were originally going to the pirates, plus all the crates I'd spied in the pirate compound, within a couple hours. Then they proceeded to talk my ear off. How they were really sorry. How they had nothing but the utmost respect for the Systems Alliance and her laws. That they had never done anything like this before and would never, ever do it again. That times were bad, bills had to be paid and families had to be fed. And did they mention that they were really, really sorry?

As sincere and genuine as they were, it made for one very long and tiring trip back. It was almost a relief when the Kerrigan's Blade finally docked at Arcturus Station.

In the time that I'd left, the staff of Arcturus Station had really gone all out. Thin patches of fake snow, outlined with Christmas lights and faux-candy cane fences outlined designated paths. There were Christmas trees everywhere, with lots and lots of lights and decorations strewn across their ersatz branches. Icicle lights and wreaths of holly dangled from the walls and the ceiling. A model-sized Santa flew by overhead on his sleigh, driven by Rudolph, the other reindeer and a small mass effect field. I gave all that a brief glance before focusing on the welcome party that had assembled to greet me.

"CHUCK!" Ellie cried out, just before she tackled me in a fierce hug. My ears were grateful that her squeals of joy only lasted a minute.

"Chuck!" Morgan shouted—not quite as loud as Ellie, but his grin more than compensated for that. "You made it back in time for Christmas!" He tried to shake my hand or give me a high-five, but soon conceded that that wouldn't be possible. "Hey, I was meaning to ask you: did you actually call me in the middle of a mission to ask about my gaming strategy?"

"Yep," I confirmed. "I needed a distraction."

"That's a story I'd like to hear," Morgan chuckled. "Or I would if it wasn't classified, of course."

"Of course."

Morgan then wrapped me and Ellie in a hug of his own. To my surprise, Ellie didn't flinch. Maybe she was just too happy to see me alive and intact. Maybe the uncomfortable relationship between Ellie and Morgan had thawed somewhat in the last couple years. Or maybe it was a Christmas miracle. Who knows?

"Group hug!" Awesome approved, grinning from ear to ear. "_Awesome!"_

Of course, he had to join in. My ribs were in pain again. The rest of me didn't care.

"Come on," Ellie urged when we finally separated. "You can still have leftovers before it's officially Christmas Day!"

"Actually," I said. "Let's wait a bit first. There's something I wanna show you."

Ellie threw a questioning look at me. In response, I jerked my thumb over my shoulder towards the Kerrigan's Blade, where the crew was offloading supplies. Ellie's eyes followed...

...her jaw dropped.

So did Morgan's.

Awesome too.

"So Ellie?" I asked casually. "Do you think anyone might have a use for 20 metric tonnes of food, 3000 litres of medi-gel or 700 metric tonnes of drugs and other medical supplies?"

To her credit, Ellie was quick to recover. "I'm sure we can find someone to take it off our hands," she replied, her voice equally nonchalant.

Awesome and Morgan left us to help unload the rest of the supplies. Before I joined them, I reached over and pulled Ellie into another hug. "Merry Christmas, Ellie."

"Merry Christmas, Chuck."


End file.
